


Career Opportunities

by bookjunkiecat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 1986, Abusive Parent, Closeted Bisexual, Contrived First Meetings, Difficult Home Life, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mycroft has an unhealthy relationship to food, Punk!Greg, Sort Of, University of Exeter, Unrequited Crush, Withholding affection, chubby!mycroft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-02-22 06:51:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13161567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: In 1986, Greg Lestade is trying to bury his unhappy childhood in his punk persona, and a tough attitude. When his home life implodes, Greg has to face a scary new future and try to find his way towards independence. With little in the way of options, he accepts a nefarious offer from his former crush, Nick Wilkes. Only time will tell if he comes to regret his new challenge...befriending Mycroft Holmes.





	1. Max

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ngaijuuyan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ngaijuuyan/gifts).



> This fic is a gift for Ngaijuuyan, who so kindly drew me some extremely beautiful art. In return all she asked was for me to write a fic featuring Greg losing a bet and paying the price by trying to woo Mycroft. I no doubt should have written something shorter, cuter and fluffier, but instead this beast was born and so I can only apologize to her: Yan, this starts out not particularly happy and not at all cute, but I promise you will get chubby Mycroft, punk Greg, a little hurt/comfort, and lots and lots of words.

_Exeter_

_1986_

          It was too fuckin early to be up, that was certain. Bloodshot eyes slitted against the chilly wind flinging bits of half-frozen rain into his face, Max tucked his chin down into the upturned collar of his insufficiently warm leather jacket and tried to look cool. Punks—real punks—didn’t wear hats, scarves nor gloves, and Max was a real punk, the realest around.

          It was fuckin cold though.

          Gratefully ducking into the recessed doorway of Billy’s building, he kicked the door vigorously until it was opened with a surly “What?” that unraveled into a slightly less surly, “Howya Max?”

          He jerked his chin at one of the lads that lived in the ground floor flat at the front of the building, “Alright mate?”

          “Alright.” He closed the door and disappeared back into his flat.

          Max mounted the stairs to the fourth floor and made his way down the hallway to the back of the old house and the flat that overlooked the bit of scrub ground shared by the surrounding buildings. Knocking on the door, Max fisted his aching fingers in his jacket pockets and peered out the grimy window at the sagging lines of frozen laundry, and the ramshackle sheds; a scrawny cat picked its way between clumps of frozen grass and wind-tumbled bits of rubbish, disappearing behind one of the sheds. Max repressed a shiver and hoped the poor thing had somewhere warm it was headed. Winter was no time for sleeping rough.

          “Billy! Open up, ya tosser!” Max shouted through the door, giving it a kick. He was freezing, tired and hungover. Below the feeling of his roiling stomach making known its displeasure with the sheer amount of beer and rotgut he’d drunk the night before, hunger lurked. He sternly ignored the fear flickering in the recesses of his mind.

          “The fuck, Max?” Billy growled, opening the door. He hung in the door, skeletal and pale and looking like death. It wasn’t just the hangover…Billy always looked like that. His normally spiked, dyed black hair was mashed on one side and standing out in a matted cloud on the other. Swallowing down a laugh at the sight of Billy Bones, as the lads called him, wearing naught but saggy socks and a pair of thermals that bagged at the knees, waist and arse, Max pushed past him and into the relative warmth of the flat, “Took ya long enough.”

          “I was sleepin,” Billy complained, scratching at his flat arse and hitching up his thermals. “The fuck time izzit anyway?”

          “Nearly seven,” Max admitted. He affected nonchalance. “You ‘n Niall still lookin for someone to share rent with?”

          Mid-scratch, it took Billy a minute to realize what he was asking, “Thought you was gonna tough it out at your folks?”

          “M’dad kicked me out last night.”

          “Shit…sorry to hear that.” Billy was awkward, “Did he find out—”

          “Spent the night at Maggie’s…course I had to leave ‘fore her folks was up.” Max said, picking at a bit of some’at on his denims and avoiding Billy’s eyes. “So…whatcha think? You and Niall willing to share with me?”

          “Sure I mean…” Billy shrugged, “We c’n always use the help makin rent, but our beds barely fit in ta bedroom. You mind kippin on ta sofa?”

          He did, but if the only other option was sleeping rough like that skinny cat, Max wasn’t going to stand on his pride. “Be alright, I guess.” It would have to be; all of his other friends lived at home as he had done, or couldn’t fit one more in their shared accommodations. Billy and Niall were the only ones he knew who didn’t live with at least four more lads.

          “Got yer things?”

          He made a vague noise. “Bring ‘em later.” Assuming he could slip home whilst his dad was out. Of course his mum hadn’t lifted a finger or a word against his dad’s screaming and ranting, nor the shove out the door. Never had done. Not that he could much blame her. His sister Sharon had been crying and tugging on their dad’s arm and had only gotten a casual backhand for her troubles. Not a single neighbor had lifted an eyebrow nor hand to stop the barney either; it wasn’t anything particularly new in their household anyway. Burnt House Lane often rang with the sounds of a knockdown coming from the Lestrade household.

          “Well…” Billy gestured vaguely, “Sofa’s all yours. Niall’s at Marie’s an’ I’m goin back to bed.” He shambled away, still scratching. Max hoped they didn’t have bedbugs or lice. His family might be working class, sure, but they were clean anyroad.

          Unable to sleep between his killer headache and his roiling stomach, Max finally gave it up and put his boots back on (his jacket he’d left on as defense against the drafts) and after a piss headed out, leaving the door unlocked. He’d have to get a key sorted later. It was well after start of shift and his dad would be away until six. Time for him to see if he couldn’t at least grab a few changes of clothes; maybe stick some soap and a few biscuits or some’at in his rucksack. The only money he had on him was a few coins leftover from buying his rounds the night before. He definitely wanted to get his carefully hoarded stash of money out from the old football boot at the back of his wardrobe.

          Max’d been saving that money since he got his first job sweeping and fetching at the train station when he was fifteen, and he gave most of it to his mum every week, but he managed to put some by as well. Never enough to move out, but no time like the present to put it to use. Lucky he made a few bob here and there, as a bouncer, and sometimes he sang in a friend’s band when needed—though at most that netted him a few drinks and some tail. He’d resisted working at the factory, not wanting to get stuck there for the rest of his life like his dad. He’d do anything not to end up like his dad.

          Looking the way he did, there weren’t too many folks willing to give him a job. It wasn’t like he could serve behind the counter at the shops. The OAP were liable to have heart palpitations if he was the one handin them their tins of potted meat and packs of ciggies. He’d kill for one himself, but he was out, and now wasn’t the time to be spending money on something he couldn’t eat.

          The front door was unlocked, as it always was, and Max snuck in; he both longed to see his mum and dreaded it in equal measure. She was bound to beg him to stay, to make peace, to kowtow to his dad’s temper. Well sod that. He’d rather set up house in that falling down shed out back of Billy’s than go crawling to his dad.

          Sneaking didn’t work, of course. Tread as carefully as he might, the stairs still creaked. “Greg!” He clutched at the handrail and steeled his heart. Turning around he saw his mum, her already red and puffy eyes welling up with easy tears.

          “Mum…don’t.” He loped back down the stairs and hugged her, long arms easily wrapping around her shaking form. Letting himself be weak for a moment, he breathed in the familiar smell of his mum; furniture polish, Silk Cuts, and Coty face powder. His mum was the only woman on their road to wear cosmetics to cook and clean…not only out of pride but more often than not to cover up bruises. Until he got his growth spurt at the age of fifteen, he’d sworn to himself that when he was big enough he’d stop his dad from using his fists.

          In the end it hadn’t mattered. Greg Lestrade Senior blustered and swore but rarely laid a hand on his son after the first time he stood up to him, and had even eased back on how often he disciplined Sharon, who was hardly bold enough to make a peep of protest at any treatment. But he still ruled his home with a fist of iron and a heart black as any fascist’s boots; and his wife still defended him against all outside forces.

          He’d given up urging her to leave their dad, his promises to keep her and Sharon safe hadn’t mattered. Jenny Lestrade was of a generation of women that stuck it out no matter how bad. For better or worse and all that.

          “Sorry,” she said, pulling back and dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a much used hankie. “I forgot… _Max_.” She smiled at him, a brave and quavering smile that scooped his insides out with surgical precision. He let her think he was bothered by her slip in using his name. Her life wouldn’t be improved any by knowing how absolutely gutted he was at leaving her and Sharon behind.

          “’s’alright, mum.”

          At sixteen he’d found punk music and anarchy and decided he wanted to be shed of as much of his father as he could while still living under his roof. He’d begun insisting he be called Max, and everyone had complied, aside from his dad. Mum still tried, but she slipped often.

          “Are you back?” She asked hopefully, touching his cheek where his dad had nearly landed a blow. It was sore and a bit puffy, but the redness was gone and so far it showed no signs of bruising. Maggie had put a cold cloth on it and given him tablets from her mum’s stash and coddled him. If he was lucky he wouldn’t have a bruise to explain away. Of course, his dad had usually been good about keeping the marks where no one could see them.

          “Naw. Just came to collect my things.” He took her hand and squeezed it, smiling to show he was alright. “Don’t worry about me, mum. I’ve already got a place to live with friends, and I’ll be alright.”

          “I worry about you, son,” she bit her lip. “Let me give you some money. I don’t want you going without.”

          “Absolutely not, mum,” Max said firmly. “That’s for you. I’ll not touch it.”

          “I’ve got some put by,” she insisted.

          “S’ve I, and that’s all I need.” He smiled more confidently than he felt, “I’ll get a job full-time and be as right as rain soon. Few weeks and I’ll be able to slip you some of my wages.”

          “You keep it for yourself,” his mum said firmly. She smoothed out her pinny, “Let me go put some food and things in a package for you, alright?” Her dark brown eyes were anxious, “Don’t leave just yet, son.”

          “Only if you can spare it,” he agreed, too hungry to argue. He hurried up the stairs and into the bath, where he shook a couple of tablets out into his palm, swallowing them dry. Fetching his toothbrush and a few things, he guiltily took the rattiest of the towels and a flannel and hunted out a bar of soap. In his room he began rolling vests and pants up and stuck them in the bottom of his rucksack; he stuck denims and a few pairs of cords he’d been too punk to wear in the last few years on top, and then rummaged through his shirts and jumpers, wedging in as many as would fit, along with a pair of trainers.

          Rucksack bulging, Max looked helplessly around the room he’d shared with his older brother Gerald until he’d done a runner in the night when Max was fourteen. Last letter their mum had gotten, Gerry was on a merchant ship working in the engine room. There was so much there, just the way Gerry had left it, since mum had refused to have it changed. As if changing anything would mean her son wasn’t coming back. He had a depressing vision of the room twenty years from now, frozen in time, a sad display of two adolescent lads who’d fled their home at the first chance.

          Putting his sadness and bitter thoughts aside until some hazy future time when he was prepared to deal with them, Max set about weeding his belongings down to the bare minimum. He took his blanket and rolled it up as tightly as possible, strapping it to his rucksack. His pillow could go with him, and the pillow case would do nicely as a sack. Into it he put his sketchbook and pencil case, regretfully leaving his precious oil paints behind. After a bit of waffling he finally included his brushes and his old tin of watercolors; no doubt his new life would leave little time for art, but it soothed him a little to think he’d have them there if needed. He knew his sketches and paintings would be safe with his mum and Sharon, but he took two of his favourites and rolled them up carefully.

          Pitiful savings secured, one last look around, and he walked out, lights off and not a single look back. “Mum? I’m going to be off now…got to drop these off and look for a job.”

          “Hold on!” She came hurrying out of the kitchen, carrying an old fruit box loaded with things. “I packed you a few supplies.” She patted the box, the brave smile of a mother sending her son off to war attempting to paper over the cracks in her facade. “There’s some sheets in there, and a few staples. You can share with your friends if you want, but not this one.” She indicated the old fruitcake tin on top, “That’s just for you, son, you hear?”

          He took the box, set it down and hugged her tightly, “I love you, mum.” Refusing to let his voice shake, “You’re an angel, you know that? I’m…” he had to stop and screw his eyes tightly shut, battling hot tears, “I’m so lucky.”

          “Go on, sweetheart,” she sobbed, “You’re going to make me cry.”

          “I’ll keep in touch, alright?” He promised when at last she let him go, her fingertips lingering as if memorizing the texture of his skin, the shape of his hands.  “I’m stopping with Billy Greenwood and Niall Johnson over at the old Haworth Building, if you ever need me.”

          “Stop by the school sometimes,” She urged him, following him to the door, the box of his meager household goods weighing down his arms, his bulky pillow perched awkwardly on top. “Walk your sister partway home, alright? Sharon’ll miss you.”

          “I will.” He gave her one last look. “Mum…”

          “Go on, Max, I’ll be fine.” She smiled at him, “Don’t you worry about me…I’ll be just fine.”

          “And don’t you worry ‘bout me, neither,” he said, knowing they were both lying. “I’ll be alright.”

          The walk back to his new flat seemed to last an hour. He blamed the cutting wind for the water in his eyes.

          By the time he’d walked up the stairs to the fourth floor, Max’s emotions were swamping him, and on top of it, he was frozen through, and starving. The door was still unlocked, although no one appeared to be home. He set his things down at one end of the swaybacked sofa and unrolled his paintings first thing. The heavy paper wasn’t too curled, he was glad to see. Hunting about he found a few thumbtacks pushed into the kitchen wall in the shape of an Anarchy symbol and took four of them, rearranging the others to fill in the gaps. Hanging his paintings made him feel a bit more cheerful, and he looked through the box, heart twanging at the box of washing powder, the soap, tins, tin opener, the few dishes and utensils. There was a box of biscuits, a jar of peanut butter, some potted meat, a few potatoes, a box of oatmeal.

          He found a permanent marker in his art things and wrote his name firmly on all of his foodstuff, including the potatoes. Tucking the box behind the crate that served as a table at one end of the sofa, he left his pillow, sheets, blanket and art supplies there where he hoped they’d be out of the way. He carried the fruitcake tin into the kitchen with him and ate a few biscuits while he began cooking some of the oatmeal. Popping open the tin released a faint smell of whiskey, and he recalled the last Christmas and it’s joys and sorrows. Poor Sharon and mum, to have only one another to see them through the season this year.

          The tin held some of his mum’s home-made treats wrapped in waxed paper, as well as two envelopes. His heart sank, but he opened them both. One held snaps: taken at the holidays, on birthdays, at his Communion. Unable to look at them, Max tucked them back in their envelope and opened the other slowly. Banknotes, some crisp, most ragged, all small denominations, sat in silent condemnation. It wasn’t a fortune, but for his mum it had to have represented safety, freedom, escape. It for certain represented years of scrounging, sacrificing, lying and subterfuge.

          Stomach heaving, Max flung himself at the filthy, overflowing sink and splattered the grimy dishes with the empty contents of his stomach and a few soggy bits of biscuit. Jesus Christ what had he done?

 

******

 

          “Sorry mate,” The publican at the fourth pub he’d stopped into said, not looking sorry at all, “Ain’t got enough ta keep us busy here, much less pay anybody else.” His small eyes flicked to Max’s towering—if slightly wind battered—boot polish black Mohawk.

          “Ta all the same,” Max said through a tight throat. He smiled, “Keep me in mind if you hear anything, yeah?”

          It was becoming increasingly clear that finding a job—any kind of job—wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d hoped. Made sense, as most of his mates—and a good deal of their fathers—were on the dole. He wanted more than that…money to set aside for his mum and Sharon…a chance to make something of himself and get the fuck out of Exeter. He shoved his unfeeling hands into his jacket pockets and ducked his face away from the wind, headed down the road with bullish determination.

          As his Auntie Peg used to say, the Lestrades were nothing if not bull-headed. _Fuck if it won’t pay off one way or t’other_ , he thought grimly, and changed course, heading back toward the flat. It was his fourth day of job hunting and he was starting to feel the claws of panic shredding his back. Time to change course and find another way.

          “Back already?” Niall asked, looking up from his toast. He was a short fellow, a bit odd and bookish, but absolutely mad at a show. His favourite trick was starting fights and wading in head first, butting his way like a bull into the bellies of his foes. His question sounded a bit waspish. He was more Billy’s friend than he was Max’s, and he’d made it silently clear he wasn’t best pleased at not having been consulted about a flatmate…particularly one who didn’t have a job.

          “Changing tactics,” Max said cryptically, and disappeared into the lav. An hour later, freshly bathed, he stared critically at his reflection in the spotted mirror. His shaved head made him look a bit more neo-Nazi than he liked, but it would grow soon enough. Time to leave the rebellion of his Mohawk behind and see if he couldn’t score a job. Any job, unless he wanted to be out on his arse.

          “Fucking Jesus Christ!” he swore when the keen wind found his naked head. He ignored the scandalized gasp of the elderlies slowly hobbling back from bingo or the shops or whatever old women did during the day and jogged back up the stairs. Five minutes later he was back out on the pavement, covered down to his ears by the black knit cap mum had made him; he’d been wearing it nights to keep his head warm in the chilly flat. Maybe it made him look a right numpty, he didn’t care, he decided cozily, wiggling his warm fingers inside the gloves he’d put on.

          _I’ll be a rebel and wear woolies if I want_ , he thought, snorting.  A reluctant smile pulled at his mouth. In the face of the bitter wind, fashion seemed a dim concept. The chorus to Bowie’s ‘Rebel Rebel’ started playing inexorably in his mind as he set off down the road; Gerry had been deeply into Bowie—ignoring their dad’s sneers about him being a puffed up fairy—and Max could still recall every line to every song, even though his own musical tastes had changed since then.

          Somehow, Bowie seemed a suitable soundtrack to his mission, he decided, warmer, if not cooler, in his new winter wraps. His jacket still wasn’t warm enough for the weather, but the three shirts he wore beneath it helped. He thought about the plan he’d formulated whilst shaving his head in the lav, all the while studying the fading marks on his neck, and he fought down a return of the nausea that seemed his constant companion these days. It wasn’t the route he would have chosen, but Max was starting to get worried about what was going to happen to him. The money he had would only last him so long. And then what was he to do?

          No, this wasn’t the way he would have chosen, Max thought bitterly, but then, none of it was of his choosing, really.

          “Max!” Nick opened the door to his flat and stared at Max, who nearly wilted in the wash of heated air that flowed over him. _Bless the upper-class_ , he thought dizzily.

          “Nick…c’n I come in?”

          “Erm…sure. Yes of course you can, Max.” He stepped back, looking more unsettled than Max had ever seen him. “What, ah, what you brings you ‘round?”

          “Been more than a week since I saw you,” Max said casually, tugging off his cap and tucking it and his gloves into his jacket pocket. He fiddled with the zip of his jacket, almost too warm now, except for his arse and thighs, which were half frozen in his denims. Fighting the urge to go sit on the radiator, he smiled, radiating calm, “Nobody’s seen you around, matter of fact.”

          “I’ve ah, been busy.” Nick ran a hand through his thick, dark hair, smiled. “My brother’s visiting, as a matter of fact.” His dark blue eyes flashed with the old charm that had bowled Max over. “You understand, right? It’s good seeing you of course, but I’m afraid I don’t have any—”

          “Time?” Max nodded. “I c’n understand that.” He hooked his thumbs in his trouser pockets and smiled affably, watching Nick study him; he saw the way the other fellow’s eyes went from his freshly shaven head to his lips, over his jacket, down to his thighs. Fighting back the automatic shiver of desire, he nodded again, “I’ve got a lot of time on my hands. My dad kicked me out of ta house, and I’m at loose ends.” He steeled himself, “Find myself in need of a job…and money.”

          Nick Wilkes wasn’t stupid by any means; his eyes narrowed, “Oh? That is too bad. No matter,” he smiled with false cheer, “You’re a fit fellow, Max, I’m sure you’ll land a job in no time.”

          “Ah, it’s the ‘no time’ which has me concerned,” Max admitted, walking deeper into the sitting room. He picked up a framed picture. Nick, his younger brother whom Max’d heard tell of, and an older couple who were obviously his parents and just as obviously screamingly wealthy. Not that Max had doubted it, since they put their eldest son up in his own posh flat while he attended the University. “I’m running out of time, have done already, really. No, what I need most now is money.” He turned, picture in hand, “Enough to tide me over is all.”

          Nick’s eyes were on the photo, “I’m afraid I don’t really see how this is any of my concern.”

          “Don’t you?” Max unzipped his jacket, began unbuttoning his shirt, “Shall I refresh your memory, Nick? Hmm?” His nervous fingers fumbled on the suddenly too-small buttons of his shirt; at this rate it was going to take him too long to get through all three layers.

          “W-what are you—stop!” He glanced nervously over his shoulder; from deeper in the flat came the sounds of a television. Max wondered if he were actually telling the truth about his brother visiting, but he brushed it off; it was obviously a lie crafted to get rid of him. Dropping his voice, Nick hissed, “I don’t know what you think you’re going to accomplish, coming here and trying to—”

          Max squashed down on the sick squirming of his stomach, stomped it into submission and left it limp and nearly lifeless. “I’m just trying to show you the love bites you left on me…seems you’ve forgotten me, Nick.” He looked up from under his lashes, “And here I thought that night meant something to you…thought I did.”

          They were words spoken to calculated effect, meant to remind him of that frosty cold night, both of them half-drunk, their breath steaming out into the still air. It had been after a rather wild show at one of the faceless nightclubs that operated half underground and seemed to come up overnight and disappear just as quickly; tthe two of them had stumbled down Burnt House Lane, shushing one another and giggling. “’s too far for you to walk home,” Max had hissed, leading the way around to the backdoor, intent on sneaking them both in. “You c’n stay the night here.”

          “With you?” Nick had asked in a sultry voice, hands sliding up the outside of Max’s thighs as he sidled up behind him, pressing him to the door. He’d dipped his voice down low, drawing shivers out of Max’s depths as his lips glossed over the cords of his neck. “Will you keep me warm, Max?”

          _Finally_ , Max had thought, heart hammering, dick already half-hard in his trousers. He’d turned, flying high on arousal and infatuation and joy, exultant that his secret crush on the handsome and magnetic Nick Wilkes was returned. They’d pressed against the door, bodies firm and unyielding, hands sliding with feverish haste over clothed forms as Nick burrowed his face into the collar of Max’s jacket and sucked on his collarbone. Max had strangled on a whimper when Nick’s hands found his flies, lowered them and plunged hotly into his briefs. He’d nearly died on the spot when Nick dropped to his knees and sucked him down. A small part of him was crushed that they weren’t kissing, but the majority of him was in line with the extreme bliss happening right there—

          And then they’d tumbled inside, stability removed as the door was jerked open, reality bleeding into the harsh light of the kitchen, sucked into the maelstrom of shouting and swinging fists as his dad banished “that faggot” from his house and dragged Max inside before any of their neighbors learned what shameful fucking antics had been going on in the garden.

          _I know he still wants me_ , Max thought desperately, hands trembling on the photo frame as Nick’s blue eyes bored into him. He couldn’t think of another way; he was turning himself into nothing less than a whore, but he needed money. Just a bit, to get by; and it was clear Nick had scads of it. Surely he’d be willing to pay a decent amount to get his satisfaction out of Max. Max would make it as satisfying as possible.

          Never mind that he didn’t really know what he was doing.

          “Nicholas, who was that at the door?” A young boy, perhaps twelve or so, walked in from the hallway. He looked from his wide eyed brother to Max, who was frozen, one hand clutching the open placket of his shirt. “Who is this?”

          Max marveled at the natural arrogance of the boy. He suddenly felt like a dirty footprint on the rug.

          “Seb, go back to the lounge,” Nick ordered tersely, “My—friend, was just leaving.”

          “Who are you?” Cold eyes surveyed him, as if he could sniff out Max’s penniless state and humble origins. He probably could.

          “Seb, howareya mate?” Max said around a lump of panic in his throat. He nodded jerkily, still clutching his shirt together. “Um, I’m just here to ask your brother a favour, so if you don’t mind giving us just a—”

          “I don’t recall inviting you to address me in such a familiar manner,” the little twat said icily.

          Max blinked at him in disbelief. If he’d ever have talked to a visitor like that, his dad would have tossed him across the room with the force of his blow.

          “Jesus Christ, Sebastian, go into the lounge!” Nick whirled on his brother, voice rising, as he pointed. His brother flinched, but finally obeyed, looking back suspiciously over his shoulder, brows one obstinate line. After he was gone from sight, Nick turned back, face furious, “I told you I had company, that this wasn’t a good time…I asked you to go. Please leave now before you cause me any more problems.” He scowled, driving a distracted hand through his hair, “I’m not sure as it is just how I’m going to explain what you’re doing here half-undressed.”

          “Can’t you—send him out to the arcade or some’at?” Greg asked, feeling his opportunity slip away. “I need to talk to you, Nick. Explain…”

          It was remarkable how much the brothers looked alike when wearing the same expression of disdain. “There’s nothing to explain. You’ve made yourself clear. Do you really think you can blackmail me?” His face twisted, “Over what? A kiss? That _you_ initiated?”

          Unable even to address the unfairness of the remark, Max fought to breathe. Here’d he’d been offering himself—his dignity, his pride, his morals and his virginity—and Nick thought he was blackmailing him. He stared at the carpet, at his dirty boots, the muddy splashes up his legs. He wondered idly if a broken heart was supposed to feel like indigestion. Without answering, he turned to go. Nick was winning…he got off scot free from any sort of punishment over their brief entanglement, he got to go on living in warmth and splendor, got to glory over his triumph in squashing Max like a bug.

          “For what it’s worth,” Max said suddenly, stopping shy of the threshold, “I didn’t come here to blackmail you…I came to ask you to give me money for sleeping with you.” Swallowing down the burr in his throat, he continued huskily, bitterly, “Stupid me, I thought you wanted sex with me…and I thought you’d be willing to pay me for it. As a sort of, I dunno, compensation for getting me kicked out of m’house.” He didn’t look back, “Thought I was at least worth a hundred quid.” As his filthy boots stepped back out onto the pristine carpet of the hallway, he laughed emptily, “Haven’t even got that going for me, I guess.”

 

******

 

          Spending a bit of his precious money on drink hadn’t been the wisest decision, Max reflected painfully the next morning, neither financially nor otherwise. He’d come home stinking and had thankfully been gone enough to ignore the pointed remarks Niall kept making, and to find Billy good enough company to give him a bit of money to run fetch them more drink.

          Now, however, his hangover and mental slowness were not doing him any favours either. “What are you on about?” He asked Nick, squinting at him with one eye open to better block out the light coming through the thin sheet that took the place of a curtain. Feeling like a pile of sick, he rose unsteadily from the sofa, nearly tripping over his blanket, and padded carefully into the kitchen. He was dying for a cuppa, but damned if he was going to offer one to Nick like he was the vicar’s wife come to pay a visit.

          Kettle on the boil, he leaned in the doorway and crossed his arms over his chest, not missing the way Nick’s eyes lingered over his biceps. He yawned and scratched the back of his head, eyes tracking Nick’s visual sweep of his rumpled form. The slice of bare belly revealed by his rising shirt hem had been revealing in more than one way. _So he still wants me_ , he thought, feeling like driving his fist through the wall. It was too late for that…he didn’t have a lot right now, including pride, but fuck if he was going to give himself to the slimy pile of steaming horses dung now.

          “You need money,” Nick repeated, obviously trying to come across as patient and good-natured. He even tried out a smile, which quickly faded at the flat look Max gave him. “Yes well…you need money…I need a favour.”

          “Not real sure I owe you any favours, _mate_ ,” Max said with heavy sarcasm, turning to snatch up the kettle before it whistled and utterly destroyed his brain. He wrapped his hands gratefully around the mug and savoured the warmth; it was cold outside his nest of blankets.

          “Look at it as a, a transaction, then, if you will.” Nick turned to face him when it was clear he wasn’t going to return to the sofa. He cleared his throat, “You offered me certain, ah, services in exchange for money—” Hastily he held up a gloved hand, “Wait. You offered them and I’d like to accept. Only they won’t be for myself.”

          “What, you want to hire me out?” Max said in disbelief. The fuck did this shite think he was on about?

          “In a manner of speaking only. Rather, I wish you to, for lack of a better word, seduce someone.” He smiled, confidence returning, “And should you succeed, in return I’ll pay you the money you suggested.”

          “You think I can just walk up to some stranger and say ‘howsabout it?’ and that’ll be it, do ya?” Max asked, sneering. “I’m sure that’ll go over a treat. Why didn’t I think of that? I can just start supplementing my income. Times are lean? Why just wander into the nearest pub or hairdressers and top up the old wallet by trawling for a goer!”

          “Don’t be ridiculous, Max,” Nick said shortly, looking annoyed. Well, he wasn’t the only one; Max was fairly boiling right now. “No I have a very specific target in mind. I’ll provide you all the necessary details, point him out, and send you on your way to er, charm him.” He looked away, heat riding the crest of his cheekbones, “You have a very…universal appeal.”

          “Even if— _if_ —I agreed,” Max objected, “What makes you think he’d go for me—what if he isn’t into blokes?”

          “I’ve determined that much,” Nick said shortly, “It won’t be the easiest thing, as he’s hardly human, but you no doubt would appeal to his hidden desire for a bit of rough.”

          Max laughed merrily despite his head, heart and stomach. “Fuck you too, mate,” he said at last, going to flop down on the sofa and flipping the blankets over his cold legs. “Christ you’re a real arsehole, Nick, how did I never notice it before?” He sipped at his tea (black, because he couldn’t afford sugar nor milk), narrowed his eyes against the steam. “Build me up with one hand and knock me down with t’other. Very nice I must say.”

          He had the grace to flush, “I-I didn’t quite mean it like that. It’s a simple fact of the matter however, that you’re significantly less…”

          “Careful how you word that,” Max said softly, smile dropping. He was done here. Nick was rapidly losing even entertainment value. In fact… “In fact, why don’t you very carefully get out of that chair that I didn’t invite you to sit in and very carefully open the door and fuck the fuck off?”

          “I’m saying this poorly.” To his credit—although it was very little indeed—Nick stayed put. “I only mean that he’s very wealthy and precise and cold-blooded, and you’d be wondrously exotic to him.” His eyes swept Max again, “I think he’d be bowled over, to tell the truth.”

          If he was trying to sweeten Max’s mood it wasn’t working. “Let me think… _no_. No, I don’t want to let you pimp me out to some cold-blooded toff who’s gotten on your bad side somehow.”

          “I’ll give you three hundred pounds,” Nick offered hastily. He met Max’s startled eyes, “In cash. Upon successful completion of er, the deal.”

          Setting down his mug, Max flipped the blankets back, walked out of the room without a word and went and had a piss. Washing his hands he avoided his eyes in the mirror. Coming back in he made himself comfortable. “And just why are you willing to pay so much money for me to shag some rich nelly you dislike?”

          “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

          “Oh but sweetheart,” Max grinned a thin grin, “You do.”

          The face-off would have been more dramatic if Max were participating; instead he went and topped up his tea and came back in, pulling aside the sheet to peer out into the rain and gloom of the back garden. He hadn’t seen the cat in a few days. He hoped the little bugger was alright. He’d sorta begun to equate its survival with his own. After a minute he returned to the sofa and put his feet up on the old footlocker which served them as a table.

          Nick cracked first. “He is…Holmes is very—cold-blooded.”

          “You said that before.” Max tsked, “Am I goin to need a hot water bottle to thaw him?”

          He grimaced, “You jest, but I’ve never met anyone so… _contained_ in my life. He’s not human. He doesn’t allow for frailty at all—for…error.”

          “What happened?” Max asked, interested despite himself. “You hit on him and he turn you down?”

          “Christ no!”

          “Sounds like he’ll be a real treat to seduce,” Max said, leaning heavily on the sarcasm again. He needed something to distract himself from the return of the squirming sensation in his gut. Jesus, it felt like he hadn’t been able to keep down aught but tea in days.

          “He is…” Nick waved a hand, clearly feeling he’d expressed himself well enough. “The point it, he remains upon his high horse, surveying all below him as peasants and scoundrels. He needs to be taught a lesson.”

          Max’s stomach wallowed queasily again. “Look—I need money, that’s a fact and one I can’t deny—but I’m not punishing some bloke on your behalf by sleeping with him.” He waved hand in imitation of Nick’s baronial manner, “Why don’t you challenge him to a duel or whatever it is you public school types do when someone’s offended you?”

          Nick was regarding him too intently, too deeply. At last he sat back, “Alright then. You don’t have to sleep with him—just get close to him. Befriend him. Get him to let his guard down, emotionally.”

          Max regarded him skeptically. “Let down his guard? That’s it? That’s your grand revenge scheme?”

          “I’ll take it from there. Oh,” Waving away the look of unease on Max’s face, “Nothing lasting, I assure you. Nothing physical. Will you do it?”

          Of course he was going to do it. Else he’d have thrown him out already. “How exactly are you going to determine when I’ve earned my money? ‘Befriending’ someone is hardly as definite a goal as sex.”

          “I’ll let you know when I’m satisfied you’ve kept up your end of the bargain.”

          “Fuck that,” Max said, standing. He could feel his face heating. “And what if you never think I have? What then, eh? Ol’ Max is left pissin in the wind?”

          A heavy sigh and a roll of the eyes, as if his justified distrust was entirely tiresome. “Fine. One hundred pounds up front. And if I don’t think you’ve made any progress by the end of the month, we’ll part ways.”

          Some moments, Max remembered hearing somewhere, tried men’s souls. Others, he suspected, stomach dropping as he shook Nick’s outstretched hand, revealed them too. He wasn’t sure he liked the look of his.

          “What did you say his name was? Hume?”

          “Holmes,” Nick said, reaching for his wallet and extracting the crisp notes, “Mycroft Holmes.”


	2. First Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite his misgivings, Max (Greg) is determined to see through the plan to meet the mysterious Mycroft Holmes. He's not prepared however, when fate instead throws him in the path of the shy, bookish Mike.

          Not that Max would have admitted it to anyone, but he had spent a goodly amount of time trying to think up clever ways he could “accidentally” meet Mycroft Holmes. Everything he came up with was so weak it would fall apart, or else so soppy and cringey that he decided he’d watched too many bad movies. If this fella was as rigid and unfriendly as Nick painted him, then he’d need to come up with something really good to break through the ice.

          In the end his frustrated planning was for naught, as it was actually the ice which did him in.

          Oxblood leather combat boots looked really cool, but they were apparently not agile enough for dealing with icy steps. Max—who’d been descending the short flight of stairs toward the quadrangle where he’d been informed that Holmes could reliably be found smoking every day before his lunch—had his eyes on his feet, and nearly ran headlong into another pedestrian. Glancing up, he saw a bloke approaching on the same side of the stairs; head down as he watched his own step, his arms full of a briefcase and a huge stack of books. Max went to move out of the way and his right boot shot out from under him, sending him down the steps in a graceless, painful tumble. Unfortunately he brought the man down with him.

          “Oh Christ,” he groaned, trying to untangle his legs from the other fellow, who was lying on his back, dazed, knit cap askew, glasses on his chin. “You alright?”

          He sat up and rubbed at his knee, which seemed to have come in contact with something fairly hard and unforgiving, if the way it was throbbing was any indication. “You alright, mate?” He repeated, worried that the other fellow might have knocked himself silly.

          So it was with relief that he heard him speak in a precise and measure voice, sounding calm and sure, “I had the breath knocked out of me, but yes, I appear to be alright.” Righting his glasses he gave Max a rebuking look, “You should watch where you’re going.”

          “Hey,” he said, mildly annoyed, “I was moving out of your way, believe it or not—thought I’d let you have the right of way considering you were loaded down with books.”

          As if reminded, the boy blanched and scrambled in the dirty bits of snow clinging to the pavement around them, “My books! Oh dear!” His expression, which had been bordering on haughty, crumpled into anxiety; the tortoise shell frames, once more perched on his arrogant nose, gave him a look of owlish dismay, the lenses slightly magnifying his grayish eyes.

          “Here,” Max offered, getting to his knees and gathering them up with long arms, “They’ll be alright—whoops! There’s _The Tempest_ trying to sail away in a puddle!” He snatched up the book and shook it, slinging freezing drops of water over them both. “This one might be a bit fucked.”

          “Oh heavens, this is _ruined_.” The mournful tone made Max feel oddly protective, as if he were eleven again, standing on the beach, watching Sharon’s lower lip wobble as she stared after the waves carrying away the ball they’d been playing with. The other boy, despite being a bit portly in his bulky down coat, looked hunched and small as he gazed with tragic eyes at the soaked book.

          “Nah, I betcha you can lay it in front of the fire and dry it right out…might be a bit wrinkled, but you can still read it.” Max gave it another shake, “Might want to do it soon though, else these pages will stick together and you’ll never get ‘em to come apart.”

          “I was on my way to lunch before my next class, but I suppose I could run these home.” He went to stand and gasped, going even paler, so that his pale gold freckles stood out on his face.

          “Here now,” Max hurriedly shoved the books under one arm and grabbed him by the elbow, “steady on. Did’ya hurt your leg?”

          “It’s my ankle,” he admitted, wobbling, “It appears I may have twisted it when I fell.” He glanced into Max’s eyes, their faces almost on level, although he was slightly taller, looking pink and flustered, “I’m afraid I’m not very athletic.”

          “Nothing to do with athleticism,” Max chuckled, “Not when a great clumsy idiot ploughs into you and knocks you arse over teakettle down the stairs!” He watched the colour increase in the other boy’s face, saw him bite his lip as he moved and put weight on his ankle, “P’r’haps you should take it easy the rest of the afternoon,” Max suggested, shifting so he could put his arm around him, “Got someplace you can sit and put your foot up?”

          “I’ve shared accommodations in St. German’s,” he admitted, tentatively gripping the back of Max’s jacket and taking a wincing step. “It’s not terribly far from here…”

          “Right,” Max said cheerfully, resigning himself to missing Mycroft Holmes today, “Let’s see you home then.” He patted the railing, “Hang on here whilst I get us sorted with your things.” He turned, “I’m Max, by the way.”

          “Oh yes, well if you don’t mind…that’s terribly kind of you, Max…I’m Mike.” He smiled primly, looking a bit young and foolish with his russet curls frothing out from under his cap, which was still off kilter. “I suppose I should start carrying a bag for all my books. I’m afraid you’ll have your hands full between me and my things.”

         

******

 

          The stairs were the worst bit. But once they managed those it was nothing to get him inside and settled. No one else appeared to be home, and Max helped Mike to sit on the sofa with its rumpled and creased slipcover. “We should probably leave your boot on because once you take it off it’ll swell worse. But I imagine it can’t be comfortable with that clunky thing on.”

          “It’s not,” Mike admitted, tugging off his hat and leaving his hair standing up like a furze bush; Max bit his lip to quell a smile. “But I’d far rather have the thing off and be subjected to wearing slippers if it swells.”

          “Hold your ankle steady,” Max warned, unlacing it almost all the way and beginning to ease it off. He set the boot aside and removed the other one with quick, efficient movements. “Got anything I can strap your ankle with? You should ice it as well.”

          “You don’t have to—” The objection died as Max frowned at him, “There should be something under the sink in the loo. I believe there’s a hot water bottle under there as well that you can use for the ice.” He added meekly, “Thank you.”

          When he returned he found Mike had tugged off his jacket and gloves and was tenderly massaging his ankle. Mike was still a bit on the chubby side, even without his heavy winter coat, and his face was rather red from the effort of getting himself up the stairs with one leg. “Here now, leave that.” Max dropped to his knees and rolled the damp cuff of his cords up and out of the way and stripped off the boy’s sock. His ankle was puffy, and when he touched it, as lightly and gently as possible, the boy gasped softly. “Sorry, didn’t mean to hurt you. I found paracetamol in the cabinet, I’ll bring you some with a drink as soon as I’m done with this.” Propping the winter-white foot on his thigh, Max began to wrap it, warning him to say if it felt too snug.

          “You’re good at this,” his host observed, “Are you a medic of some sort?’

          Max snorted, “Nah. I played rugger and footie in school, and got to be a dab hand at binding sprained ankles. This should do you for now, but if it’s not better by morning you’ll want to see a proper doctor.” Finished, he stood, “I’ll just make tea.”

          “You really don’t have to!” Was called after him, but Max ignored him, going to fetch a glass of water and the promised pills. In the kitchen he filled the kettle and looked about. The cupboards appeared to be labeled; stepping closer, he scanned the names for Mike, then looked again, heart doing an odd flippy-swoopy sort of thing inside him when he saw not a single Mike listed amongst the names, but a cupboard labeled in a firm, bold hand MYCROFT HOLMES.

          “Bugger,” he whispered, shocked. Prim, nice, blushing Mike was _Mycroft Holmes_.

 

******

 

          His hair must be an utter fright. Mycroft patted at it, wishing he could see it, but then decided that in this one area ignorance was bliss. He probably should have left his hat on, but it would have looked odd, and anyway he was quite warm from the effort of making up two flights of stairs. Better red-faced and with the hair of a hooligan than red-faced and sweaty; his rescuer was not liable to fall at his feet, spellbound with love and lust, but Mycroft didn’t want to make matters worse by _perspiring_.

          Max was not at all the sort to catch Mycroft’s eye under normal circumstances, but there was something about his incandescent smile and easy manner that was terribly attractive. His slim, muscled waist had felt heavenly flexing under Mycroft’s hand, and their clothed thighs brushing together had been positively indecent.

          “You take milk and sugar?” The cheerful shout from the kitchenette startled him from his lascivious thoughts.

          “None, thank you,” Mycroft called, although he longed for them; tea simply wasn’t the same without a swirl of creamy milk and at least a touch of sugar. Mummy had put him on yet another diet, not that he’d noticed any loss of weight. Still, he had to try, didn’t he? If only to quiet Mummy’s concerned fussing when he went home.

          Wiggling his toes—the ice pack was quite effective even with the radiator humming away, Mycroft stared at his foot, which was perched on a cushion on the low table, where Max had placed it with gentle courtesy. Despite his vaguely disreputable appearance and rough language, the other boy was surprisingly kind and almost sweet. And with bold dark eyes and a jawline made for caressing he was the type of good looking and vaguely dangerous young man that made Mycroft’s palms damp with anxiety and inadequacy. If circumstances hadn’t forced them into one another’s company no words would have passed between them and they would have moved on without ever meeting. The idea was unpalatable. Mycroft wondered what he could do to prolong the moment. There wasn’t anything wrong in indulging a tiny feeling of longing for his company, was there?

           Plump (or worse) since infancy, and, after his last growth spurt, nearly six feet tall, Mycroft had experienced an unaccustomed feeling of fragility as Max curved a strong arm around his waist and spirited him home.  It had engendered distinctly tumultuous feelings in the arena of his heart. _Don’t be a fool_ , he lectured himself silently, waiting for Max to return with the promised tea, _he’s clearly a working-class tough, hardly likely to be interested in men, and even if he were, he wouldn’t succumb to_ my _dubious charms._ The thought of being laughed at, rejected, possibly attacked for his inclinations filled Mycroft with a shaky anxiety that quelled his timid ardour like a dash of cold water to the back of his neck. He sat up straight and used his discarded hat to swipe at the moisture from his briefcase, a gift from Uncle Rudy. Uncle Rudy wasn’t the type of man to open himself to ridicule or danger; he had built a placid, insular life and a brilliant career on caution and secrecy, and Mycroft was determined to model himself after his mother’s older brother.

          Not for Mycroft the chaotic disorder of his brother, or the sticky affection and smothering attention of his parents. Mycroft wasn’t good with people, Mummy often said so, and as he wasn’t suited to being a priest or a hermit, he’d determined to devote his life to a career in the halls of government. Originally he’d thought to become an academic, but the stresses of managing his course load, pulling off brilliant marks and stropping the keen edge of his intellect on a continual parade of administrators and idiots had given Mycroft a desire to seek his path elsewhere. Uncle Rudy was grooming him to be his intern, then assistant and eventual successor. Politics was rather interesting, quite like chess, in a way, a game of strategies which he enjoyed.

          It would be a good life, one dedicated to Queen and Country and Mycroft rather thought he could do worse with his life. Not being interested in girls, he was assured by his uncle, was excellent, as it would be one less weakness for enemies to exploit. The subject of his interest in boys, however, hadn’t arisen, as Uncle Rudy, for all his perspicacity, wasn’t aware of that particular aspect of Mycroft’s character. It was hardly going to be an issue, as he had never enjoyed so much as a kiss, and didn’t have the type of personality to overcome his looks, nor the type of looks to overcome his personality.

          If he allowed himself to think about it (which he tried to avoid) Mycroft ended up completely depressed. His handsome rescuer was stirring unwelcome feelings of desire for more than his unquiet life of study.

          As a consequence of his reflection on his shortcomings, Mycroft was out of sorts and defensive. When in doubt he tended to close himself off and adopt a mannerism not unlike a dowager duchess (or so Sherlock liked to taunt him); he had pulled on his haughtiest manner by the time the kettle whistled in the other room, and when Max appeared, carefully holding a mug which billowed steam, face uneasy, Mycroft was nonplussed. The easy manner and detached friendliness were gone and in their place was…a disquieting glint of what could not be but must assuredly appeared to be edginess.

          In but a handful of minutes his rescuer appeared to have lost his smile and his casual self-assurance. “I took a stab that you were Mycroft Holmes,” he said with a cautious smile, setting the mug on the table next to Mycroft. “Hope I used the right tea bags and things.”

          “Yes, I’m Mycroft,” Mycroft said coolly, blowing at his too hot tea. It was quite dark as well, over-steeped, and he dreaded taking a first sip. “Myc is a nickname.” And not one he normally employed outside of his family, but he’d been flustered and blurted it out.

          “Well I’m still Max,” Max said, but a look passed over his face, too brief for most people to notice, and Mycroft’s worry increased. Before he could censure his thoughts, Max had looked at him and caught his eyes. A long, uneasy moment and then, “At least, Max is the nickname I gave myself a coupla years ago.” He rubbed at his upper lip, “’s actually Greg Lestrade.” He stuck out his hand, “Since we’re being formal.”

          Mycroft shook his hand and hastily tucked his own back into his lap, determined to ignore any resulting tingles from the clasp of that broad palm, those rough fingers. “Max seems an odd nickname for Greg,” he observed, taking a cautious sip of his tea. It was indeed too strong and without any milk or sugar it sat bitterly on his tongue. Putting on a company face, he propped the mug on his knee.

          “Max is cuz I thought I was the toughest, meanest punk,” the other boy said, giving an embarrassed half-laugh, “Maximum noise, maximum fun…just…” he went a bit red, “It’s dumb.”

          “Nothing wrong with Greg. As a name.” It was a very nice, respectable name for a nice, surprisingly kind young man. Mycroft made a decision not to be so hasty to judge on appearance alone in the future; Greg had been all that was kindness, even if he was now rather deflated in spirit from his initial friendliness.

          A shrug, “It was more that I didn’t want to share it with my dad.” Restless, he moved to begin gathering the damp books they had dumped on the table, “I’d best get your books laid out…here by the radiator alright?”

          “If you don’t mind,” Mycroft said apologetically. He watched as Greg knelt and began to carefully lay out the books. To distract himself from the very firm looking bum pointed his way, Mycroft commented, “It seems to be a common theme between fathers and sons—misunderstanding and discontent. Particularly when it’s the eldest child, they are the trailblazers of sorts, and often the challenging of the father’s authority comes with a price.”

          “Not the eldest,” Greg said shortly, and then, as if realizing he’d been too abrupt, “I’ve got an older brother, Gerald.” His mouth twisted as he glanced up at Mycroft, looking defensive, “They didn’t get along either.”

          How decidedly odd, “You’re named after your father, not your elder brother?” Mycroft tried to keep the frown off his face, lest he appear too judgmental. Sherlock said he had a face like spoiled porridge, Mummy told him he looked like a sour puss when he frowned and for heaven’s sake to try and be pleasant, Father told him he should show his lovely smile more, and Uncle Rudy told him to keep his frown, as it would be a formidable weapon in years to come. Sometimes Mycroft wished his family didn’t have so very many opinions about him.

          “Gerry’s named after our granddad.” Greg held up Mycroft’s paperback copy of Whitman’s _Leaves of Grass_ , “I’m afraid this one is pretty fragile, and it’s dirty as well.” He rubbed gently at a smudge with his thumb, “You’ll probably not want it in this condition.”

          “I bought it used several years ago,” Mycroft said, “If it can’t be salvaged I’ll have to get another.” He sighed, “It’s unfortunately my favourite. I read it to relax when studying becomes too much.” At the thought of the make-up work he would have to do from missing his afternoon classes, when he already had a double course load, he rubbed at his suddenly aching head. Oh goodness, he didn’t need one of his headaches on top of his injured ankle.

          “Must be hard, managing all those classes,” Greg remarked, delicately peeling stuck pages apart. “I’m glad to be done with school. Got bored too easily.”

          “Perhaps your classes weren’t challenging enough?” Sherlock had certainly begun behaving slightly better once he was moved forward in school. Although the emphasis was on slight, as his baby brother was horribly behaved and outrageously contrary.

          The laugh that earned him was self-deprecating, “My marks weren’t good enough for me to say I needed more of a challenge.” Greg grinned a bit, “I liked history—all those dates and rulers and the family dynamics were interesting, and I loved art—I wouldn’t call it learning, it was more like _fun_.” The engaging smile was back, his face suffused with animation and warmth. Clearly he had enjoyed at least some of his time in school. “But other than that it was all pretty boring sitting around while they droned at us; except for some of the books they had us read, and working the logic problems in maths.”

          “Are you an artist?” Mycroft asked, “Or merely an appreciator of beauty?” He was genuinely interested in the answer, but he had an ulterior motive in wanting to keep the other boy longer; it was nice to sit in the warm, quiet of his flat and enjoy a conversation. Most of his socializing at university was with his professors or polite nothings with his flatmates. There were even times when he missed Mummy’s incessant, silly chatter.

          A shy look entered Greg’s face, “Mm, I doodle a bit. I’m not an _artist_ though.” His tone suggested that the notion of himself as an artist had never entered his head, and that he might as well wish to be an astronaut or a fifteenth century nobleman, or the Queen.

          “Well if you have an appreciation for art and history, you could concentrate on that,” Mycroft suggested, “University might not be so bad if you were studying to become an art historian or the like.” He himself had truly enjoyed his pursuit of Modern Languages; politics, economics and business were interesting, but not as gripping.

          A complicated expression gripped Greg, but he smoothed his face out and smiled affably, “I think that’s a bit above me. Most I’m looking for now is a steady job.”

          “Oh? Anything you’re interested in, in particular?” Mycroft had never had a job, aside from spending the prior summer cataloguing his German professor’s private library. It had been unpaid, of course, as it was considered an honour.

          “Something to buy food with,” Greg said, a bit sourly.

          One of the dreadful flushes he had hoped he’d left behind in his younger years heated his face, “Oh, yes of course. Stupid of me.” Just because he’d been raised in a comfortable home with abundant meals didn’t mean Greg was lucky enough to come from the same.

          Keeping him thoroughly on his toes, Greg switched back to his earlier friendliness, “Nah, don’t say that. You’re anything but stupid. Don’t mind me, I’m just a bit desperate…been looking for work but I can’t find anything. That’s _my_ problem though.”

          “If I hear of anything…”

          “Thanks.” Greg stood and nodded at the books, “Leave these for a few hours and they should be alright.” He hesitated, “Erm, I’ll be off then.”

          Oh. “Oh.” Mycroft set down his mug, “Yes, of course, I’m sure you have places to be. You were awfully kind to help me.”

          They looked at one another and then away. After a staggeringly awkward silence, Mycroft gestured at his foot, “I’d see you to the door, but…”

          “Don’t think of it,” Greg said firmly, “You stay put and move that ankle as little as possible.” He shifted, seeming reluctant to leave, even as he glanced at the stairs, “Will one of your friends be home soon?”

          “Friends? Oh, my flatmates you mean. At least one of them will return with an hour, perhaps two.” Mycroft smiled, trying to radiate capability, “I’ll be alright until then. It’s feeling much better.”

          “If you’re sure…” Greg, for all his mercurial mood, and for as eager as he’d seemed to set off, now dawdled. “Need a sandwich or some’at?”

          “Heavens no!” Said, Mycroft was self-aware enough to note with wry amusement, as if he hadn’t a thought of being hungry. Eating in front of Greg Lestrade was certainly not on. He avoided eating in front of anyone if at all possible. The memory of Freddie Fairchurch making pig noises at him in Sixth Form still haunted him. Thinking about it made him tug unobtrusively at his jumper, making sure his stomach was firmly covered. “Thank you again,” he said lamely, recognizing that it was time to let Greg go and wishing he could just ask him to meet for coffee sometime.

          “Take care then,” Greg smiled, glancing back over his shoulder, “Hope your books survive their dousing.”

          “I hope you find employment.”

          “If lucks on m’side,” Greg smiled, shoving his hands in his pockets.

          “We make our own luck,” Mycroft said, before flushing at how preachy he sounded.

          Greg stared at his boots a beat too long, and then looked back up at Mycroft with a damp smile, “Yeah.” He glanced around the flat and met Mycroft’s eyes again, “Well, ‘bye then.”

          “Goodbye.” Mycroft listened to Greg’s boots clomp down the stairs, and the door open. He shivered at the sudden chill of the empty flat, and tried to convince himself that it came from the draft up the stairs, not from the departure of his erstwhile rescuer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yan has been so terribly patient with me, waiting for an update to the first chapter, and I want to apologize to her, and to any of my other readers who might have been waiting on an update. I have no excuse, except for Real Life (TM) which was just...Extra the last few months. Life was Extra, my friends, but I have powered on and cranked out chapter two. I hope it was worth the wait, and I further hope to have the (estimated) three chapters written and posted within the next four to six weeks.  
> Much love, bookjunkiecat <3  
> find me on Tumblr @savvyblunders


	3. Tea and Sympathy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite his best intentions, Greg can't help but make a friendly gesture toward Mycroft Holmes. Will a further meeting between them prove to be the last? The only thing Greg knows is that he finds Mycroft surprisingly easy to talk to, and saying goodbye for good might be harder than he expected.

         Given his level of intelligence, his natural instinct for observation, and the insight which Uncle Rudy was cultivating in him, Mycroft was not used to the unexpected. His life was rather solitary, for all he was surrounded by housemates and fellow university students; visitors were non-existent, letters and packages (aside from those from home) were rare, and phone calls were quite infrequent.

          His routine scarcely varied: wake, perform his ablutions before someone proceeded to hammer the door down for their turn, enjoy a cup of tea, a slice of bread (yes Mummy, _thinly_ buttered) and an apple, walk to class, ignore others. At lunch he would venture outside in all but the worst weather to have a smoke, eat his second apple of the day in some out of the way place, return to classes, return home, have his tea, study far into the night and then a few hours of restless sleep until his alarm roused him again. Little interrupted this routine, which was both comforting in its familiarity and horrifically stultifying, but overall Mycroft liked things the way they were.

          It wasn’t until a mysterious package was left at his doorstep that Mycroft discovered how delightful the unexpected could occasionally be. “This was left for you, Holmes,” Robie said, entering the sitting room, where Mycroft was curled up near the radiator, trying to warm himself before he retreated to the secluded chill of his room. It was too early for tea—if he ate now he’d be even more miserably hungry by the time he crawled into his bed around two a.m. Endless cups of tea helped quell hunger pangs and fuel his studies, but they weren’t really a substitute for food.

          “Oh,” Mycroft said as the small package was tossed carelessly into his lap. Robie, unaware that he’d quite shocked his housemate, continued on into the kitchenette. Mycroft picked it up and studied the package; brown butcher’s paper was folded carefully around the object, but not just any brown paper. No, this was decorated with hand-drawn leaves, lushly green and beautifully detailed. Mycroft admired the skill, almost forgetting to look at the folded paper tucked under the firmly tied twine. He was unable to loosen the knot, so he rose and went into the kitchenette in search of a knife to cut it; Robie was chatting with Frobisher and Hawkes, and they ignored him, carrying on their conversation. Mycroft, enthralled by his mystery package, paid them no heed, simply cut carefully through the twine before nodding an absent farewell, to close himself in his room rather than return to the sitting room.

          Technically it was a shared room, however, after a month of sharing, Smithson had moved his bed into the already crammed room that Robie and Singh shared. Delight over his cherished privacy had warred with humiliation that he’d run his roommate off so quickly. At this point in the year, however, Mycroft wasn’t going to complain that he had the room entirely to himself; particularly not since it allowed him to study as late as he wished without grumbles about grinds keeping other, _sane_ , people up.

          None of this was on Mycroft’s mind at that moment, no, all of his focus was on reading the note; his name in bold, square writing was all that was displayed, but the inside proved more illuminating; Mycroft’s stomach swooped with excitement and expectation, soaring up when his eyes automatically sought out the signature.

_Greg Lestrade._

          Heart pattering foolishly, Mycroft started at the greeting.

 

_Mycroft,_

_It’s been a week so I’m sure your ankle feels better. If not you’d best visit a doctor, don’t want to be laid up too long. Either way I thought you might find time to enjoy this. I’m sending you a new version of an old friend. I feel really badly about knocking into you & hurting your ankle and I could tell you were disappointed when Whitman got ruined. This is a get well soon gift but also a thank you. I think you’re my good luck charm, because two days after we ran into one another, a letter came to my mum’s house for me. _

_It wasn’t very clear, but the man was writing to offer me a job. Turns out he knew someone who met me once when they came to lecture at my school or something. Hard to credit, but apparently I made a good impression, because they told their friend about me. The man I’m to work for runs a small gallery here in town called the Gilded Lily and he needed an assistant to do all sorts of odd jobs and cleaning and run the till and even help put on ~~exibit~~ exhibitions. It’s a naff name, but the job’s not bad. The best part is the wages, but the next best part is that I get to look at art all day long and my employer says he can let me use his discount on art supplies if I want.  And he has a bunch of books on technique & stuff which he’s letting me read at my breaks._

_(I know I’ll never be a great artist or something but I’d like to learn more & be the best I can. You can see an example of my horrible art on the wrapping paper)_

_Anyway now I can look after myself as well as set a bit aside for mum and Sharon. Did I tell you about my sister Sharon? She’s younger than me and still at home. I miss her although not how long she always took in the loo! The mates I live with now don’t spend ages fiddling with their hair unless we’re going to a gig. I walk Sharon home from school every so often & she chatters on & on & tells me all the news. One of the bits of news is that I’m going to have tea with my mum & sister at my Auntie Peg’s house next week, which will be great. I really miss her._

_So that’s two good things that have happened and I feel like they’re all up to me meeting you. Before that day everything was going about as wrong as it could. You’re my good luck genie mate. I feel bad for being so sour about my prospects when you were trying to be helpful that day. I was feeling pretty bitter and I’m not too proud to say a bit scared as well. I can take care of myself but if I hadn’t a job soon I wasn’t sure what I’d do next. I think I came off as a bit of a dick that day we met._

_My gift isn’t new but I like to think of old books as being sort of comfortable and lived in. No that sounds like they’re dog chewed slippers or something. They’re like they’ve lived a long happy life with other people and been—soaked in good memories. I hope you make some more good memories with this one._

_Greg Lestrade (Max)_

         

          Stupidly, Mycroft could hardly breathe by the time he reached the end of the letter. His one phone call had resulted in such gratitude for his perceived existence as a good luck charm. Thank heavens Greg would never know about Mycroft and Uncle Rudy’s involvement in his good fortune. Mycroft hated to think of chilly gratitude and grudging charity clouding the bright sense of happiness Greg’s words had poured onto the paper. Unwrapping the paper—setting it aside with respect for the artwork—Mycroft pulled out a secondhand copy of _Leaves of Grass_. It was a hardcover copy, with a bit of softening and a few small tears around the edges of the dust jacket, but all in all it was a good, sturdy book. He sniffed it as he always did with old books, finding the smell of yellowing paper, aging glue, and dust a comfort.

          The flyleaf bore an inscription, and for a briefly foolish moment his heart leapt. But it was old, faded violet ink. _For David—you know why. Simon._

They are virtual strangers; Greg is not going to write something inside the book for him. Mycroft fanned the soft pages with his thumb as he stared at the wrapping paper. Perhaps he didn’t get an inscription, but he did get hand-crafted wrapping paper, and a letter. Hugging his gift happily to himself, he decides it is enough.

 

******

 

          “I’m off to elevenses,” Jeremy sang out, popping out of the back office where he spent more time on the phone and flicking through gossip mags and travel brochures than actually working, or so Greg has determined. At first he’d thought the man was gay—with his arch manner, fashionable clothes and the fact that he owned an art gallery, but after seeing him with multiple women in the past few weeks, Greg had decided he was just colourful. Whatever he was, Greg was grateful for the fact that he had decided to open his gallery, and then decided it called upon too much of his time which led him to hire Greg. Jeremy was able to splash about with his talk of being a gallery owner, while not actually doing much in the way of work, and Greg had an easy job, good wages and a warm, dry place to work on sketches and pour over books on art, history and technique.

          His words to Mycroft has been true, he wasn’t an artist, not a real one. But he loved creating drawings and paintings, and Greg wanted to be as good at that as he could. To that end he put the kettle on and pulled out his current read as soon as Jeremy hit the high road. The floors were swept, the frames and displays dusted, and the latest stock of folk art-inspired shawls and baskets had been crammed onto the overloaded shelves. They hadn’t sold anything all week, and Greg would have been more concerned, but Jeremy clearly wasn’t.

          Either the man was the worst businessman in all of Great Britain, or he had family money and couldn’t be arsed to care if his pet project didn’t bring in money. “Cheers to your terrible work ethic, mate,” Greg muttered, raising his mug toward the hotel where Jeremy was off on yet another hours’ long social hour. The rain was pattering down from a gloomy sky, and the streets were mainly deserted as no one with any reason to be out returned home for a warming cup of tea.

          There was a pack of savory biscuits in the back, on the shelf above the tea things, and a bit of cheese, and Greg was just thinking about popping back for them when a flash of colour caught his eye, and to his surprise a bundled figure hesitated at the glass door, caught his eye and entered after a slight pause. “Good morning, sir,” Greg said cheerfully, straightening from where he had been comfortably slouched on the tall stool, cup of tea steaming gently next to the large, hardbound glossy art book. He pushed aside his selfish desire for a quiet half hour and smiled, “Welcome to the Gilded—Mycroft?”

          Unwrapping himself slightly from his mummy-like layers, Mycroft’s frizzy head emerged from the wooly bits, and his glasses positively shone with eagerness, though not nearly as brightly as his uncertain smile. For no discernable reason Greg’s heart gave a happy bounce inside him. _Shut it, stupid_ , he thought. He was supposed to be keeping his distance from Mycroft, that’s what he’d decided. _No happy bounces, hear?_

          “Hullo…” Mycroft cleared his throat as he politely tamped his winter boots on the mat, “I-I hope you don’t mind, but I simply had to come by and thank you for the book.” He brandished it from one of the capacious pockets of his hideous brown puffy coat. “The paper was g-gorgeous.”

          The stutter and accompanying blush were endearing. Greg got the sense that Mycroft found him intimidating, although possibly not for the usual reasons—the boots and punk gear. Not that those were in evidence these days, not at work. Today in a nod to the bone-deep chilly cold, he was wearing brown cords and a heavy-knit navy and cranberry jumper his Mum had made him. Billy’d had a good laugh when he caught sight of him, but Billy didn’t think Greg’s new wages were a laugh, so he could get stuffed. Mycroft appeared to have noticed his altered appearance as well, “Oh…you’ve changed,” he sounded bemused, as if realizing it had not been months since they parted, “and in such a short time as well.”

          Running a self-conscious hand over his hair, which was growing out into a non-style vaguely reminiscent of convicts, Greg leaned on the counter and grinned, “Can’t exactly go around looking like Johnny Rotten and sell overpriced baskets and such to tourists.”

          “I suppose not, no.” Mycroft took a timid step forward, still clutching the book. “Blue suits you.”

          “Does it?” Greg asked in surprise, never having given the matter any thought. “Huh.” He changed the subject, nodding at Mycroft’s feet, “See you’re up and at ‘em alright,” he smiled, happy to see that Mycroft didn’t look so gloomy or meek as he’d seemed when he left that day; his freckled face bore an uncertain smile, and there was a bit of colour in his cheeks, no doubt from the cold. “Glad of it.”

          “Yes, it was just a day or two of rest and hobbling about and now I’m fine.” Mycroft gestured with the book, “This was awfully kind of you, Greg. You really didn’t have to replace my book.”

          It seemed the least he could do, honestly. After meeting the real Mycroft Holmes, it hadn’t taken long for Greg to realize that whatever his past with Nick was, he hadn’t earned the humiliation that was in store for him. Because Greg might have tried to convince himself that the unknown Holmes was some posh bastard who deserved a good comeuppance and that he wasn’t a slimy worm for taking Nick’s money. He might have told himself that whatever Nick planned would be one of those things that rolled off your back and in later years made you laugh ruefully about the painful pranks of youth—but he’d never really believed it.

          Spending less than an hour with Mycroft had been all it took for him to get a sense of the younger man, and the idea of turning his awkward shyness against him through some false friendship had turned Greg’s stomach. It was clear Mycroft was quiet, retiring and unused to socializing…underneath his dignity had been a tentative effort at appearing friendly and self-assured.

          Greg hadn’t returned the money yet. It left an ever-present sick, hollow feeling in his stomach, but although he intended on giving it back to Nick, he was also panicked at the thought of throwing away his safety net. He’d give it back, gladly, as soon as he received his next wages, and as soon as he could stomach the idea of facing Nick again.

          “I’m interrupting your break,” Mycroft said uncomfortably, clutching his book. He took a step back, “I just wanted to—I-I’ll go—”

          Snapping out of his thoughts, Greg straightened on his stool, “Hey, sorry, got a bit caught up in a thought there. You don’t have to run off…it’s not really my break. Boss is out and I thought I’d have a sit and read.” He hesitated, glanced outside at the weather, which really hadn’t worsened in the last five minutes, “Looks bad out there…you could stay and have a cuppa with me? There’s biscuits and cheese as well…” he trailed off invitingly. Despite his guilty ruminations, Greg felt a sort of need to take the apologetic look off of Mycroft’s face.

          Disregarding the polite sputterings his offer set off, as it was clear Mycroft longed to stay, Greg took his coat and book and set them in the back. He felt oddly cheerful, and put it down to having a bit of pleasant company on a rainy day.

          Greg took one of the mugs he’d cleaned the night before from the shelf and filled it with hot water, dunking in the teabag and letting it steep while he sliced cheese onto a small plate and dumped some biscuits out as well. Giving the teabag a good, firm squeeze over the spoon, Greg carried the mug out carefully, the plate in the other hand. “You don’t take milk or sugar, right?”

          A wistful look passed quickly, “No, thank you.”

          “Sure?” Greg asked, “Nothing like a lovely milky tea on a cold day.”

          “I’m—not allowed.” He went red.

          “Right,” Greg said blankly, watching him blow at his black tea, “Fair enough.” Not _allowed?_

          “Mummy says milk and sugar are unnecessary indulgence for someone of my weight.” He was staring miserably at the floor.

          “Someo—Myc, mate, you’re not fat.” Greg shook his head and leaned on the counter, piling a bit of cheese on a biscuit, “Suppose you won’t help me eat this then, eh?”

          “I’m not allowed to eat between meals. Snacking is a weakness.” Those shy grey-blue eyes were still fixed on the floor, and his soft mouth was curled into a sad shape. It was clear he was quoting someone—his mother probably—and didn’t she sound a bit of a pill?

          “That’s me, weak,” Greg said cheerfully, shoving another bite in. He chewed, swallowed, grinned naughtily, “Mum always said I had hollow legs, arms too, and now I’m responsible for feeding m’self, I think she might be right!”

          “Is your mother well?” Mycroft asked politely, “Did you enjoy your tea with her?”

          “I did! It was great seeing her.”

          “Does she live far?”

          “Wha—oh, er, no.” Greg swallowed his cooling tea, uneasy with airing the reason he couldn’t visit his own mother in her home. “How far is your home?”

          “My parents and younger brother live in my childhood home, just about equal distance from Robin’s Hood Bay as from Whitby.”

          Greg was surprised, “From the north, eh? Wouldn’t have guessed it from your—” he gestured, “y’know, how you speak.”

          Mycroft shrugged, “School,” he said cryptically. “I’ve been at school since age six.”

          _“Six?”_ Greg asked in disbelief, stunned at the thought of being sent away from home at that age—stunned at the thought of any mum sending their little sprout off alone so young. “I thought you lot usually went at eight or so,” Which still sounded too young but Christ, _six_.

          “Seven, for some pupils,” Mycroft said rather diffidently, flinching at the ‘you lot’ comment, which made Greg bite his lip in regret for his hasty words. “I was…precocious. Mummy couldn’t handle me.” He looked vaguely sad, “and she was expecting my younger brother soon, so of course she couldn’t be expected to spend her time with me.”

          Greg thought of his mum, keeping house and cooking three meals a day, placating his dad, running after him and Gerry, constantly diapering Sharon, always bandaging their scrapes, kissing them and sending them off with a pat and a good-natured scolding. He thought of his Auntie Peg and her noisy, jolly, squabbling brood of six, their neighbors with scads of kiddies, his mates with their many brothers and sisters. “…sure. Yeah. Um, so where did you go?”

          “Bedford School,” Mycroft answered politely, “and when I was thirteen I entered Harrow.” He sipped his tea, barely concealing a grimace.

          “And you have a younger brother? Any sisters?”

          “No, just Sherlock and myself.”

          “Is he at your old school?” Greg held out his hand, “Gimme that and I’ll top it up, ‘s cold today.”

          “Sherlock? No, he has never attended school. He is tutored at home.”

          Greg, safely in the back room, made a face, “Why’s he not at school then?”

          There was a little silence, “Sherlock is sensitive. And highly intelligent—a genius, really. He requires one-on-one time with someone of his level of understanding.”

          “Your parents must be proud with two smart fellows like yourself.” Greg rinsed the mugs and swirled hot water in them to warm the mugs.

          “Yes, they are very proud of Sherlock…and of course they’re pleased with my efforts.”

          Jesus Christ, Greg was getting quite a picture here of Mycroft’s parents and it wasn’t a pretty one. Despite his nice clothes and his posh accent and his fancy public school education, Mycroft Holmes had his own troubles. Greg hadn’t ever considered his home-life a great one, despite all his mum’s efforts to smooth things over and keep the peace. But at least she loved them, at least she wanted to see them happy and fed and let them know how much they mattered.

          Mycroft’s parents had shunted him off to school as soon as he was able to dress himself, it sounded like.

          Greg arranged a smile on his face and emerged from the backroom, mugs in hand. “Here you are—oh! Sorry, I forgot, and put sugar and milk in both.” Actually he had thought the poor bloke could use a tiny bit of comfort.

          “That’s alright,” Mycroft said, accepting the mug, “Best not to waste it.” He sipped with an expression of pleasure, and Greg’s heart went a bit warm and melty. Seriously? What was it about this bloke that made him feel like someone had entrusted him with a puppy?

          “So what are you reading for?” He dragged another stool out of the back and put it where Mycroft could sit opposite him; without asking he pushed the plate closer to Mycroft and helped himself to another bit of cheese. Mycroft bit his lip but didn’t give in to temptation.

          “Politics and economics.”

          Greg whistled, “Your brother’s not the only genius in the family then!”

          “Hardly. Oh, I’m intelligent enough,” Mycroft conceded when Greg scoffed at him, “but honestly I’m just a plod…I have to grind at my books like anyone.”

          “With a double? I doubt you’re just a grind. Going into government?”

          “Mm, my uncle Rudy—my father’s older brother—is grooming me to be his heir.”

          Jesus Christ, his _heir_. Mycroft sounded like he was some character in an improbable novel. One of those with secret societies and devious back room deals. Although the reality was probably more prosaic, a bit of friendly nepotism, introduction to a bunch of Tory lifers and a job at a desk somewhere, with a pretty secretary and a receding hairline by the time he was thirty.

          “He’s the one who funds my education,” Mycroft paused delicately, “Mummy’s incredibly intelligent—before she and Father married she was a mathematician—but neither the Vernets nor the Holmeses have family money. Uncle Rudy is a shrewd investor, and it is through his largesse that we can afford my education and Sherlock’s.”

          “Is your mum a teacher then?”

          “Private sector,” Mycroft said crisply.  “Father is a music composer—classical, mainly. Sherlock got his love of the violin and his musical talent from him, although he’s a far more gifted musician than Father.”

          “Do you play?”

          “No…I’m not musically talented, although I appreciate the efforts of others.”

          “I played guitar a bit in a band, but I’m strictly amateur,” Greg said ruefully, “Had visions of myself as a break out in some tiny group who made it big, but I’m not all that great at guitar. Just enough to noodle about on weekends.” For some reason he added, “And play for mum. She loves the Beatles and always asks for her favourites.”

          “Diligent practice makes many a musician or artist more skilled at their craft.” Mycroft reached absently for a biscuit, nibbled it. “What sort of music do you play?”

          They were deep in a discussion of music when Jeremy returned, so engrossed in their conversation that Greg failed to see him approaching. He expected to get an earful, but Jeremy merely stopped, startled, took in the two of them, elbows on the counter, crumbs littering the surface, half-empty mugs in front of them and opened his mouth only to close it abruptly. “Any calls?” He finally asked, gaze flitting away from Mycroft.

          Greg had the urge to reach out and smooth Mycroft’s frizzy hair, poke him to stand up straight, but he resisted. “No, it’s been quiet.”

          “I was just leaving…” Mycroft began, avoiding looking at Jeremy.

          “I’ve a bit of a headache, Greg,” Jeremy said, fussing with his gloves, “I’m going home for a lie down, close up at five will you? I won’t need you in the morning, but please be here by two, I’ve an afternoon meeting with some fr—with some investors.”

          “Yeah, sure.” Greg smiled, “I’ll keep the ship running and see you before two tomorrow.”

          Jeremy left with a brief wave and they were alone again. “I should probably not keep you any longer,” Mycroft began.

          Even though he knew it would be best to part ways—hell, it had been his plan to stay away entirely—Greg didn’t want to say goodbye just yet. Since leaving home he’d found himself increasingly lonely, even though he was living with two other people. Billy was a good mate, but he wasn’t much of one for interesting conversation, and he didn’t look at Greg with glowing blue-gray eyes, as if Greg were some slightly exalted being. He didn’t know about all types of music and books and art and he didn’t make Greg laugh over sly observations about Jeremy and the few passersby.

          “Where’d you learn to do that?” Greg asked, laughing.

          “My uncle began to teach me a few years ago,” Mycroft said, picking up crumbs with his fingertips delicately and brushing them onto the plate. “I’m nowhere near as skilled as he is at reading a person’s history from their tells, but I’m learning.” He laughed ruefully, but with obvious fondness, “I taught Sherlock and I’m afraid he’s abused it horribly—the last two dailies quit abruptly after being subjected to my brother’s particularly unfiltered views on their peccadillos.”

          “He sounds a terror!“ Greg laughed. Quite the picture was being painted of young Sherlock; Greg wondered if the brothers looked alike. He’d kind of like to see a younger version of Mycroft—he was probably a cute little nipper. All big eyes, curls and shy blushes.

          Mycroft’s expression softened, “Sherlock is…mercurial, demanding, more sensitive than he likes outsiders to know…” He leaned his chin on his hand, “Part of the reason he is tutored at home is that Mummy and Father saw how difficult school was for me.” He straightened, cheeks darkening, “As you might imagine, my school-fellows were not particularly kind to me; a charity case, as it was, portly, shy and ginger.”

          “Myc,” Greg began in exasperation, “honestly you act like you’re the size of a house! You’re just, you’ve got a bit extra around the middle. ‘s cuddly.” For some reason his face felt warm, and Greg focused on Mycroft’s hands; the bitten nails, the cuticle which had begun to bleed as Mycroft became agitated, thinking about his perceived defects and taking it out on his hands. He glanced up, saw Mycroft’s bright pink face and wide eyes and cursed. Christ, he needed some distance! He was supposed to be avoiding Mycroft, not telling him he was ripe for a cuddle.

          Warm with blushes, the two of them avoided one another’s eyes. After a painfully protracted silence, Mycroft cleared his throat delicately, “I should, ah, probably be going. I’ve taken up enough of your time.” He smiled diffidently, “I don’t think Mr Allen would think me for monopolizing his employee.”

          “Oh, right,” Greg agreed, stupidly disappointed. He fetched Mycroft’s coat and the copy of his book, walked him to the door. “Don’t slip now,” he joked lamely.

          Mycroft turned at the door, stuck out his hand, “Well…goodbye.”

          Greg, who had stuck his suddenly too-big hands into his pockets, quickly pulled his right hand out and shook Mycroft’s, thinking sadly of the nails nearly bitten to the quick, the abused cuticles, that hesitant smile. “I’ll…see you around.”

          Mycroft nodded, “Yes, of course.” But they both knew it was a polite social remark. “Well…goodbye.”

          Greg stuck his hands back in his pockets, fisted them, rocked onto his toes. “Bye, Myc.”

          “Bye.” With a last look over his shoulder, Mycroft was through the door and gone, trudging down the rain-lashed street. Greg stood for a long time, watching as his figure receded in the distance, telling himself it was ridiculous to feel a tinge of sadness at the last sight of Mycroft Holmes.

         

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed the chapter count is now open-ended. I'm not positive how many more chapters will follow this one, but fair warning, this is part one of two in a series I have planned. So stay tuned and thank you for your patience between updates! <3
> 
> (Follow me on Tumblr @savvyblunders)


	4. Invisible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It seems Greg can't keep his distance from Mycroft--even though he knows it's for the best. Mycroft pays a visit to his family home for the weekend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that Mycroft has an unhealthy relationship with food. He isn't quite to the point of having an eating disorder, but he does treat himself poorly, and sees food as an indulgence he hasn't earned. Blame Mummy. I do.

          Greg was waiting for him when he came out, already late for class. Mycroft had been up even later than usual, head aching as he tried to study, and in his fog had apparently forgotten to set his alarm. There had been no time to shower or eat, nor even to make a cup of tea--Mycroft had flung on his clothes, shoved his books in his bag and tumbled down the stairs. As he staggered out the door, eyes still crusty, frightful hair frizzing in every direction, Mycroft nearly tripped over Greg, who was standing on the doorstep.

 

          “Whoa!” Greg exclaimed, putting out his arms to steady Mycroft. He looked exasperated, “Mate, you  _ tryin’ _ to take another tumble?”

 

           “S-sorry,” stuttered Mycroft, shoving his glasses back up his nose, “I’m late and in rather a hurry.” He realized he’d forgotten both his gloves as well as his hat and wanted to cry. His exhaustion was fathoms deep, and the idea of trying to run back upstairs for his things, then back down again, and then to campus and his class, left him utterly spent. He was so exhausted that even the sight of a red-cheeked Greg looking at him with big brown eyes wasn’t enough to make his morning brighter.

 

           Greg looked discomfited, “Oh. Leaving, were you?”

 

          Mycroft was torn; on the one hand, if Greg had come looking for him, as it appeared he must be, then he hated to leave. On the other, he didn’t need to miss any classes--Uncle Rudy was looking for excellence from him, and excellence could not be achieved by mediocre effort. “Yes--I overslept and I’m on my way--did you need something…?”

 

          “It’s--y’know what? It’s fine, mate, I’ll catch you later.” Greg peered at him, “Have you even had any brekkie?”

 

          “No time,” Mycroft said breathlessly, wishing he’d spared a moment to brush his teeth.

 

          “Here--” Greg shoved something into his hand. Mycroft looked down, it appeared to be some sort of food, wrapped in paper. “‘S a cheese bun--I took a nibble already, but you can have it.”

 

          Mycroft’s insides swooped, and he bit his lip, overcome, “T-thank you, Greg...I’m--yes, thank you, if you’re sure?”

 

          Greg gave him a little shove, smiling slightly, “Go on, genius, don’t be late--I’ll catch you up later.”

 

                                                                                                          *******

          ‘Later’ proved to be that same evening, after tea time. Mycroft always waited until his housemates had eaten before he prepared his tea, toast, apple and salad. Partly it was to avoid them, partly to avoid comment on his diet, but mostly so he wouldn’t be too tempted by the sight of their food. It was hard, being always hungry, but Mycroft knew that if he just tried hard enough, eventually he would overcome the weak desires of his body and become something harder and leaner, allowing him to deflect abuse, to slip away between the faceless figures of a crowd. He wondered if he could diet his way to invisibility. How lovely it would be to glide through life, untouchable.

 

           There came a certain point each day when the hunger pangs would die off and he’d be left feeling strangely unhungry, but very aware his stomach was empty, as if, should someone thump on his belly, he would echo like a drum. His mind seemed to slow down, crystallizing his thoughts, as a pleasant lightheadedness gripped him. It left Mycroft almost euphoric with a feeling of lightness, invincibility. But it never lasted--always, his stomach would begin it’s tormenting growls and feel as if it were trying to eat itself. His lightheadedness would become a marked dizziness and lack of coordination, and one of his terrible headaches would grip him in a vise. Mycroft inevitably caved in and ate an apple or slice of toast, and the worst of the symptoms would ease off, but it left him unsatisfied and still hungry, and with a feeling of having failed his potential. No matter how many times Mycroft promised himself he wouldn’t give in the next time, he always did.

 

           The cheese bun Greg had pressed upon him was long gone, and as he had neglected to put his usual midday apple in his pocket, Mycroft hadn’t eaten anything in over eight hours. He was starving, and could scarcely wait to put on the kettle and toast his bread. No butter or marmalade, he lectured silently, and only one slice. He was just preparing his salad when he registered a new voice coming from the direction of the sitting room, and a moment later Greg stood in the doorway. “Sorry to come at tea time,” Greg said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I wanted to talk to you this morning only you were in a hurry.” He nodded at Mycroft’s hands, which held a slice of bread, “Don’t let me stop you.”

 

          “Forgive me,” Mycroft said, dropping it into the toaster, “would you like some toast?”

 

          “I didn’t mean--”

 

          “Have you had your tea?” Mycroft inquired politely; his heart beat faster, perhaps Greg would stay and share a meal with him. “I’m having salad, but I can easily make you some eggs, or--”

 

          “Salad and a piece of toast is all you’re having?” Greg frowned.

 

         “And an apple for after,” Mycroft said, getting down the tea. “Thank you for the bun, this morning. I hadn’t time for any tea this morning, and I forgot my a--my food for lunch, so it was most welcome.”

 

         “Myc,” Greg said, looking concerned, “Is that... _ all _ you’ve had to eat today?”

 

        “Yes, but it’s alright--”

 

        “Bollocks,” the other boy swore, “It’s not enough to keep a parakeet alive. You need to eat more, ‘specially with all the studying you do--feed your brain and all that.” He put his hand to his pocket, a strange look passing over his features. “Let me take you out for a bite--fish and chips?”

 

        Mycroft automatically objected that it wasn’t necessary, even as his stomach howled in longing at the thought of delicious, hot fish and salty, vinegary chips. His brain got in on the action as well, wondering what was wrong with him. Here was a good-looking boy wanting to take him out to eat and he’d gone and said no.

 

       “It’s no problem,” Greg argued, “I have my wages, and it’ll be a treat for me as well.” He lowered his voice as Singh walked past, glancing in casually at them, “‘n I still want to talk to you--maybe not here?”

 

       He would be an utter fool to throw away the chance to sit and share a meal and conversation with Greg Lestrade--and Mycroft was not a fool.

 

                                                                                                      *******

 

          The chip shop they went to wasn’t far away, which was good, as Mycroft was feeling dizzy and sluggish. Greg had slowed his pace to match Mycroft’s, and they walked in companionable silence. Mycroft fretted that perhaps he was being dull, but his headache had not ceased, and he was feeling quite crabby and drowsy. The shop was mostly empty when they arrived, and the girl behind the counter looked bored and annoyed when the bell over the door rang, but she straightened with a smile when she caught sight of Greg. 

 

          She wasn’t a bad looking example of the species, if rather hard looking, and Mycroft resigned himself to watching Greg try to chat her up. But despite the best efforts of the young woman--Shaina--their transaction was brief. Taking paper cups of tea to a clean table, they sat down, and Mycroft watched enviously as Greg added sugar and cream with a generous hand. He was startled--and slightly annoyed--when Greg plunked the cup in front of him and took Mycroft’s untouched cup of plain tea and did the same. “You’re as white as that cup,” Greg said firmly, “and you’ve shadows under your eyes I could hide in--drink the tea, Myc.”

 

         “I’m not accustomed to being bossed around,” Mycroft said, voice stiff. He felt defensive, called out. The way he took his tea was none of Greg’s business.

 

         Greg opened his mouth, then abruptly shut it. After a minute he spoke more reasonably, “Look, I’m sorry--but you should see your face, mate--you look like you haven’t had a decent meal in weeks.” He stared at his hands wrapped around the cup, glanced up, brown eyes soulful, “Thought you could use a bit of coddling, that’s all.”

 

_         Heaven save me,  _ Mycroft thought,  _ he can have anything he wants if he keeps looking at me like that.  _ Sipping at his (damnably bracing) tea, Mycroft pursed his lips, “I appreciate your concern, but I’m able to look after myself.”

 

        “Clearly not,” Greg said with a touch of humour, “otherwise you wouldn’t look on the verge of swooning.”

 

        “I’ve never swooned in my life,” Mycroft objected indignantly.

 

        “You didn’t cop a look at yourself this morning,” Greg retorted bluntly, “Thought I was going to have to catch you and carry you back upstairs.”

 

       Mycroft went red, his mind flooding with a very vivid mental image of being swept up the stairs like Scarlett O’Hara in Rhett Butler’s arms. While he didn’t think the trailing red velvet dressing gown would suit him, he quite liked the idea of being tumbled into (and tumbled  _ in _ ) a bed by a sardonic Greg, intent on seduction. 

 

      “Here ya go,” Shaina interrupted his fantasy, slinging their baskets on the table, “Need anything?”

 

      “Thanks, we’re good,” Greg smiled briefly, reaching for the vinegar. He smiled at Mycroft, “Get that in you.” He popped a chip in his mouth, eyes shining, “Wanna see you clean your plate, mind.” He wagged an admonishing finger, dimples indicating his hidden smile, “Or it won’t go well for you.”

 

      “Beast,” Mycroft muttered, plucking a bit of fish off the fillet. He put it in his mouth and groaned aloud--oh Lord, he’d forgotten how simply delicious a lovely, battered piece of cod was--and was unable to keep from licking his fingers, chasing every delicious bit of breading, salt and vinegar. He glanced up, finger in his mouth, and turned pink at the look Greg was giving him. Oh Lord, his manners! Here he was being rude to the person buying his food, and then eating with his hands and licking his fingers...what must Greg think of him?

 

                                                                                                           *******

 

        There it was, that flash of heat Greg had felt before,the flutter in his belly, the clench of his heart. He listened to Mycroft moan and watched him lick his fingers and thought about what kind of sounds he’d make if Greg kissed him. Before he could help himself, Greg thought about what it would feel like to ease his arms around Mycroft, feel the soft give of his flesh, the warmth and solidity of his body beneath his jumper--

 

 _Stop it,_ Greg thought in a panic, _you can’t think about him like that! If you even think about going anywhere near him or his mouth, you’ll be doing Nick Wilkes a service--is that what you want?_ The answer was decidedly no. Greg shoveled in a bite of food and washed it down with tea, telling himself this was the last time he had anything to do with Mycroft Holmes. They’d have their tea, he’d speak his piece and shake Mycroft’s hand and that would be the end of it. He couldn’t chance Nick using his actions against Mycroft. The problem was...it was so easy to spend time with him. Mycroft wasn’t stuffy at all, and although he sometimes got a bit tongue-tied, he genuinely seemed to enjoy talking with Greg. It was all too easy to think they might become friends despite the differences in their lives. That was out, however, very firmly off the table, due to circumstances. Feeling stupidly depressed, Greg focused on enjoying his meal--he hadn’t had a meal out in ages and he wanted to groan and lick his fingers like Myc, only then they might be thrown out for indecency--and carrying on an undemanding conversation. It was all too easy; somehow, despite the divide between their situations, they got on as if they’d known one another always. And oddly, Greg felt like Myc might be as lonely as he was.

 

        Because Greg  _ was _ lonely, despite having two flatmates, and seeing people at his job. He missed the warmth of his mum’s kitchen, the bickering with Sharon...he even missed his dad a tiny bit, which felt wrong somehow. But sometimes he’d been okay, like when he would take Greg with him to his mate Dean’s garage and show him how to work on motors and change tyres. Or the time when he was younger and they all went to Blackpool and his dad showed him and Gerry how to shoot the air rifles, and they had won a pile of useless stuffed animals for mum and Sharon.

 

        It would have been easier if he could have just straight up hated his dad. It would have been easier if he could have hated Nick and not felt the odd pang when he thought of him and how he’d felt about him before it all fell so disastrously apart. He’d been half in love with Nick, who was the first boy Greg had ever had a serious crush on, and being so abandoned and then degraded was a crushing loss. He knew he shouldn’t still think of him sometimes, when the nights got lonely, and he wondered if anything Nick had felt had been genuine. Greg was finding that it wasn’t so easy to remove people from your life--even when you knew they were no good. Suddenly Greg felt slightly queasy, and stopped eating his chips, wiping his fingers on the paper napkin and giving Mycroft what felt like a ghastly smile. At least it was some comfort to see Mycroft with colour in his face, looking much more alert than he had just a half an hour before. “Looks like you’re feeling less peaky,” Greg said, crossing his arms on the table. “I’m glad--you shouldn’t let yourself get so hungry next time.” Mycroft made a non-committal noise, but ate the last bite of his food. Greg saw him glance at the chips still in his basket, and pushed them toward him, “Feel free…”

 

        “I shouldn’t,” Mycroft hedged, but his greasy fingers twiddled, and Greg smiled, happy to see him hungry and eating and enjoying himself--and he was just so damn  _ adorable _ .

 

        “Ah go on...you missed breakfast and lunch, eat the chips, Myc.” Life, Greg reflected, watching Mycroft drag the chips through a puddle of ketchup, wasn’t all bad if it included people like Myc, and moments like this. Two friends enjoying chips and a quiet night. There was something so fragile in the way Mycroft looked at him, almost as if he felt the kind of attraction for Greg which Greg had felt for Nick--only Greg was determined not to hurt Mycroft. Ever. Even if it meant not seeing him again.

 

                                                                                                            *******

 

        With a blissfully full belly, and a (for now) quiet conscience, Mycroft lingered on the doorstep. Greg had walked him back to his building, and Mycroft found himself unwilling to say goodnight. He thought about asking Greg to come up for a cup of tea but it felt awkwardly like a date. And he couldn’t be sure that his flatmates wouldn’t still be around...he had no desire to try and converse with Greg in front of them. And he could hardly invite Greg into his bedroom. That really _would_ look like he expected something to happen between them!  “Thank you for feeding me,” Mycroft said a bit shyly, “I do feel better now that I’ve eaten.”

 

         “‘M glad,” Greg said, but he sounded distracted. He stared at his boots, “Look, Mycroft--”

 

         The door opened, and Robie nearly bowled into him, stopping short, “Oh, I say, Holmes--your mum was on the phone about a half hour ago, sounded a bit upset.”  He pulled the door shut, “She asked you to call her,” he cast over his shoulder, as he set off down the road.

 

         Mycroft wanted to howl, he had hoped for a few more minutes alone with Greg, and now he was being called away by duty. Mycroft turned back to Greg, “I’m sorry, I’d best go. But thank you again for dinner--you’ll have to let me treat next time.”

 

         “Yeah, about that--” Greg shifted on his feet, opening his mouth as if drawing in a great big breath.

 

         “I’m sorry, Greg, I really must go, but perhaps I can come by the gallery in a few days and take you to lunch?” Mycroft smiled hopefully, one hand on the doorknob.

 

         Greg sighed, “Yeah...sure. G’night, Myc.”

 

        Bidding him goodnight with reluctance, Mycroft hurried inside, annoyed that of all times his mother had to call him  _ now _ . He only hoped it was a legitimate cause for upset, and she didn’t want him to talk sense into Sherlock over some silly infraction with his tutor. Still...he had another meeting with Greg to look forward to, and he could plan their dinner…

 

                                                                                                         *******

 

        “You’re a good lad to come home, Mycroft,” Father said, pulling his old Morris Marina into the gravel apron in front of the cottage. “We’ve missed you, it’ll be nice to have us all back together for the weekend.”

 

        “Of course, Father,” Mycroft said, dutifully getting out and helping him unload the boot, which was full of supplies which Father had picked up in Whitby before coming to the train station to fetch Mycroft. “It’s been since Christmas, I’m quite glad to be home.” Which wasn’t a lie. He was just equally longing to be back in Essex. Where he could potentially be treating Greg to dinner and a film. Assuming he could get up the courage, and Greg accepted.

 

        They’d no sooner made it through the door than Mummy was coming to meet them, her sheer shawl and peasant skirt flowing behind her thickening figure, the striking, pale blue eyes which Sherlock had inherited bright, “Dear boy!” Engulfing him in a hug, Mummy sighed, “I think you’ve grown another  _ inch _ since December, Myc.”

 

        Before he could react defensively--honestly, the woman could probably smell the fish and chips on him from two days ago--Mummy leaned back and squeezed his face between her soft, perfumed palms, “Hasn’t he, Siger? I do believe he’s going to be taller than you!” She smiled at her husband with that smile that was always equal parts embarrassing to witness and a bit stupidly cute. Mycroft was glad his parents were still madly in love, he just didn’t want to be subjected to their spooniness.

 

       “Come into the sitting room, darling, and warm up by the fire.” Mummy turned and called toward the kitchen, “Margaret, will you please bring in the tea?” There was no answering call, and Mummy huffed, “Honestly--Margaret?”

 

        “I’ll go find her, Mummy,” Mycroft said hastily, “I’ll join you in a minute.” He hurried down the short passageway to the low, cozy kitchen; it was empty, although full of the smells of baking bread, and soup and something savoury bubbling away in a casserole dish which made his stomach rumble. Giving their old cat Nellie a scritch behind her ragged ears, Mycroft passed to the door which led outside, guessing that Megs had gone to the shed to fetch more veg. Indeed, he met her on the way back, a basket spilling over with turnips, carrots and greens over one arm. “Megs,” Mycroft said, and she opened her arms and gathered him up as tenderly as ever she had done when he was younger.

 

        “Oh I missed you, pet,” Megs said in her familiar, comforting Geordie accent, “I’ve  _ missed _ you.”

 

        “I missed you as well,” Mycroft said, taking the basket from her. “I’ve been horribly busy, else I would have written more.”

 

        “Best not to do that too often,” Megs said wisely, alluding to the upset it had caused Mummy when he first went away to Bedford School and had sent drawings and clumsily written letters home to the housekeeper. “Come along out of the cold, laddy, and help me lay the tea tray.” She winked at him, “I’ve made a lovely macaroni cheese for lunch, just the way you like it.” As he passed her, Megs remarked, “You’re too pale, and that’s a fact--I’ll feed you up this weekend--you can’t be taking proper care of yourself, Myc.”

 

         Mycroft set the basket down and set about cleaning the turnips and carrots, “Well, my books and courses do keep me busy, but I just went out for a meal with a friend on Wednesday.”

 

         “A friend is it?” Megs gave the soup a stir and held out the ladle for him to taste. “I’m glad to hear it...what’s their name?”

 

          “Greg,” Mycroft said, feeling a bubble of happiness well up at the thought of Greg’s easy smile and his warm dark eyes. It was almost delicious as the parsnip soup. “He’s an artist and he works in an art gallery--we had tea last week, and then he took me out to eat the other day after I had a, a long day.” It was the closest he’d come to gushing about Greg since they met, and Megs was a willing audience. He stopped his enthusiastic recital of Greg’s good points to eat the ginger nut biscuit Megs offered him, guiltily aware that Mummy wouldn’t approve.

 

         She warmed the teapot, her hazel eyes smiling at him, “You should invite him home some weekend, let us get a look at the lad.” Greg, here? Oh no...where Mummy would embarrass him and Father would be absent minded and silly, and Sherlock would torment him? No, quite out of the question. Megs interrupted his thoughts, “Best take this along to your mum, or she’ll be in here wondering what’s keeping you.” She poked another ginger nut in his mouth, “There’ll be plenty of time to talk later, laddy.”

 

         Mummy was indeed a bit piqued that he’d lingered so long in the kitchen, “You’ve hardly come in the door, and already you’re off visiting with Margaret. Honestly, Mycroft, sometimes I think you don’t _want_ to come home and see us.” Protesting that he was very busy at school, Mycroft was grateful when Father interrupted to ask after his studies. They were on their second cups when the back door slammed, and a moment  later Sherlock came running in, grubby, with damp trouser legs and wild curls, “Mycie!”

         Mycroft didn’t have time to stand up; hastily he set aside his cup and opened his arms with a huge grin as Sherlock flung himself into his lap. At twelve, Sherlock was still a bit short for his age, he had lost his baby fat and he was all knees and elbows as Mycroft hugged him. “You smell like a wet dog,” Mycroft laughed, giving his brother a tight squeeze.

 

         “You smell like ginger nuts,” Sherlock said thoughtlessly. Over his head, Mummy met Mycroft’s eyes and sighed in disappointment, her expression falling. Mycroft closed his eyes and buried his face in Sherlock’s musty jumper.

 

                                                                                                           *******

 

          He was  _ so  _ stupid, he’d gone with the express purpose of confronting Mycroft about his interference in getting him a job, and yet he’d never said a word, and instead ending up spending some of Nick’s money buying Mycroft dinner. Greg had realized that he’d never told Mycroft Jeremy’s last name, and yet he had referred to him as Mr Allen when he was at the gallery. Paired with the abrupt, vaguely miracle-like job offer, certain facts had begun to emerge. Greg wasn’t sure how he felt about being handed a job on Mycroft’s interference. When he’d thought it was because something about his art skills or work in school or his personality had won him the position, he’d felt quite proud. Knowing that Mycroft arranged it felt rather like cold-fingered charity.

 

          Probably, if he were smart, and not the moron he was, Greg would have just let the matter go, and resolved never to see Mycroft again. Instead he’d seized upon the opportunity to visit him again. “Idiot,” Greg muttered, leaning against the wall, head ducked away from the keen fingers of the wind. He was waiting outside Sharon’s school, so he could walk her part-way home. It was funny--they’d squabbled and fought like any brother and sister, but since he’d left home the two of them were a bit gentle with one another. 

 

          He looked up and caught sight of Sharon, walking with her best mates, ponytail swinging, laughing hysterically in that way teenage girls had that always made you feel like you were the punchline to the joke. She glanced his way and stood for a moment, saying goodbye to her friends, before she turned away and came to join him. “Howya, Greg?”

 

           “Hey,” he said, slinging an arm around her narrow shoulders, “I’m good--how’re you? School alright?”

 

           “Alright...I got called out by Mr Howard for passing notes in biology,” Sharon made a face, the scowl pulling her face into lines alarmingly like their father’s. “Of course he singled me out, barely a word to Valerie--everyone knows he fancies her.”

 

           “Scandalous,” Greg said, grinning, happy to hear her gossip like old. It was the first time he’d seen her since he moved out that she hadn’t looked tragic and on the verge of tears. “Valerie’s the one with the big--” he gestured helpfully in front of his chest, “--i’dn’t she?”

 

           Sharon elbowed him, and he let out a dramatic oof and pretended to reel from the blow, “ _ God _ ,” she cried, “You sound like all the boys in our grade. Obsessed with…” she trailed off, unwilling to say breasts. 

 

           “I wouldn’t say  _ obsessed _ ,” Greg said thoughtfully.

 

           Glancing at him, Sharon walked beside him for a few minutes in silence, dawdling, “C’n--c’n I ask you somethin’?”

 

           “‘Course.”

 

           “Are you--do you--” Sharon bit her lip, stopped him with a hand on his arm. Greg glanced down at her in concern, but she was looking away. Finally she glanced at him, then away, looking shy, “I thought...you were gay?” The unspoken implication being, why had he noticed Valerie’s noteworthy breasts.

 

           A cold sensation enveloped Greg which had nothing to do with the weather; he hadn’t actually ever told anyone he liked blokes, it was understood by one or two friends, and Nick, by proxy, knew, of course, and his dad  _ thought  _ he knew...but he hadn’t said, out loud, one way or another. And the idea of talking about it on the street made him feel sick. A quick glance around at least reassured him a bit, as there was no one nearby. Still, he spoke in a near whisper, “It’s not...that simple. I,” he licked his lips, “I do fancy men, as well as women, but I’m not--” Gay. He couldn’t say it. It wasn’t even really true, was it? How was he supposed to know? All his life he’d grown up hearing nothing but poof, and fairy, and faggot from his dad. Was gay even something he wanted to be, if he had the choice?

 

           “Sorta like Bowie?” Sharon asked, trying to be helpful.

 

          Greg laughed soundlessly, ribs squeezing tight around his heart. She didn’t  _ sound  _ upset or horrified or anything. “Sorta, yeah.” He blinked damp eyes, “Damn wind…”

 

          Silently, Sharon tucked her arm through his and gave it a hug, “No wonder dad was so upset…”

 

_           Upset.  _ As if Greg had come home with a black eye, or had accidentally smashed a window with a ball, and their dad had turned into some sort of old-fashioned, understanding father like on old American telly programmes. Wearing a knitted cardigan with patches on the elbow, smoking a pipe as he explained to Greg that he ought not lose his temper or tell lies, or try to hide wrongdoing.  _ Upset.  _ As if their dad hadn’t called him a load of filthy names, landed one blow on him before Greg struck back, and then ordered him out into the cold night. 

 

          In a lot of ways Sharon was like their mum; she wanted to smooth things over, press them down and flatten out the problems. “Are you--do you have a boyfriend, then?” Sharon asked tentatively.

 

           He thought of Nick, and of Mycroft. “No--just--no, I haven’t.”

 

           “Do you want one?”

 

            He looked at his feet instead of meeting her eyes, “Haven’t time for that, have I?” he asked cheerfully, firmly putting aside the memory of Mycroft’s shy eyes glowing at him across the table. “‘M making a name for myself in the gallery scene.” As he’d known it would, it made her laugh, and he easily turned the conversation to other things, their footsteps slowing as they approached the turn to Burnt House Lane.

 

            “You wanna stop by and say hello to mum?” Sharon asked hopefully. “Dad shouldn’t be home for an hour yet.”

 

            “Can’t, gotta go to work.” Greg walked backwards, smiling at her, easy and confident, “Maybe next weekend I can take you out to the caff for a treat--got my wages coming.”

 

            She smiled happily, seeing only her self-assured older brother, believing he was happy and content and had plenty of money. “That’d be great! Oh! And mum said if I saw you to tell you she wants to see you at Auntie Peg’s on Tuesday for lunch if you can make it.”

 

            “I’ll see...gotta go, brat, be good, y’hear?” Sharon waved goodbye, and he felt her watching as he turned away and took off, so he kept his shoulders straight and his head up. He hoped she told mum he was just fine. If he convinced everyone else, maybe he could convince himself too. Work hard enough at it and maybe the world wouldn’t see him as the sullied loser he was, but as someone who had it together, had a future. His own dad thought he was filth, but he could maybe keep it so no one else saw what Greg Lestrade saw in his son.

 

             It was Friday, he reminded himself, he got paid today, and he could replace the little bit of money he’d used from what Nick had given him and go throw it back in his face. The longer he kept it the sicker it made him feel. As if Nick owned him somehow. As if all of his actions with Mycroft since that first meeting had been bought, rather than freely given. Greg thought again about the way Mycroft looked at him, the way he felt when their hands brushed, or their eyes met, and knew he couldn’t keep the money a minute longer--even if he was determined not to see Mycroft Holmes again. He wasn’t good for anybody, much less someone as gentle and sweet as Mycroft.

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Some of you may have noticed the inclusion of the nasty and objectionable Sebastian Wilkes from The Blind Banker. This was intentional, as I figure the Wilkes family and the Holmes family have been at odds far longer than Sherlock's uni years.


End file.
